


Mutually Beneficial

by TheYesterdayShow



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: "Needs To Take Some Moral Vitamins Deceit", Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Gen, Guys this is super angsty, How Do I Tag, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt sides, Nightmares, No Smut, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panic Attacks, Someone help, Sorry Not Sorry, Torture, Unsympathetic Deceit Sanders, Violence, Whump, but he's not really that, but not enough, he's more like "Morally Deficient Deceit", i know it says unsympathetic deceit, like what else do i tag, no beta we die like men, the violence isn't too graphic, well some comfort, what are they hiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 41,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYesterdayShow/pseuds/TheYesterdayShow
Summary: It was a relatively peaceful morning in the mindscape when Patton realized Virgil was missing. It was nothing out of the ordinary, Virgil often disappeared for hours at a time. So, instead of worrying, the Sides went about their usual routines, knowing he'd turn up eventually.It was several days later when Logan, looking back on his weekly notes, noticed that Virgil wasn't in any of them. Normally, the anxious Side averaged a mention about once every hour. Now . . . nothing.OrVirgil disappears, and lots of hurt follows him.Trigger warnings to be posted at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic to post here. Two important things about this. First: each Side generates a soft light of their chosen color. They don't have to, and they can choose to turn it off, but they mostly leave it glowing if they don't need to conserve energy. Second: the Sides cannot kill each other. They can render each other unconscious, which would leave Thomas feeling a little blank in that Side's regard--for instance, if someone knocked Roman out, Thomas would feel a lack of creativity.

It was a relatively peaceful morning in the mindscape when Patton realized Virgil was missing. It was nothing out of the ordinary, Virgil often disappeared for hours at a time. So, instead of worrying, the Sides went about their usual routines, knowing he'd turn up eventually.  
It was several days later when Logan, looking back on his weekly notes, noticed that Virgil wasn't in any of them. Normally, the anxious Side averaged a mention about once every hour. Now . . . nothing. Thomas was still functioning normally, as far as he could tell, implying that his anxiety hadn't 'ducked out' again.  
Patton started freaking out as soon as Logan shared his concerns with him and Roman. Roman looked vaguely uncomfortable, but made an attempt at placating Patton, suggesting that Virgil was fine and just taking a little longer than usual.  
Again, they went about their usual routines, a funny feeling residing in their stomachs.

-

“What's up, kiddo?”  
Thomas shrugged. “I dunno. I'm just . . . not feeling like myself.”  
“Perhaps it's a physical ailment?” Roman suggested. “After all, I'm feeling like my fiiine fabulous self, so, no complaints here. Patton?”  
“I think I'm fine,” said Patton. “I can't help but feel . . . worried, though.”  
“Worried? Why worried?” Thomas frowned.  
“Why wouldn't he be?”  
“Virgil!” Thomas exclaimed, at the exact same time as Patton. The side rolled his eyes at their affection, then continued.  
“Thomas, what haven't you done today?”  
“Oh my goodness, you didn't forget your allergy medication again?” Logan butted in, rising up. “You spent 42 minutes in the vicinity of a cat today, you need to—”  
“No no, I did that,” Thomas waved, cutting him off. “Something just doesn't feel right.”  
That was true enough, Logan realized as Thomas continued to talk. Something—or someone—was wrong. And he was certain that that someone was Virgil.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: George Harrison - Not Guilty https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdLRwh3u68s

“Did either of you notice that Virgil wasn't himself?” Logan asked cautiously later that evening. The three sides were relaxing in the living area of their home. For some reason, Roman had insisted on lighting a fire in the fireplace, despite the fact that it was August.  
“It doesn't matter,” he had claimed. “We can just turn up the air conditioning!”  
Now, however, he was sitting in the regal armchair (his throne) by the fireplace, honing the blade of his sword with a whetstone. Patton was cuddled up on the rug in front of the roaring fire, playing solitaire. Hearing Logan's question, he frowned. “I did,” he said.  
Logan was taken aback. He'd assumed he'd been the only one to pick up on it. “You did?”  
“Yeah,” Patton nodded eagerly. “Virge and I have a super-secret-buddies look. We always do it—but he didn't today.”  
Logan blinked. “What? Never mind,” he amended. “I don't want to know.”  
“Was the villain in disguise again?” Roman asked, looking up.  
“I'm almost certain. Along with—what Patton said—” Logan gestured at the father figure— “he had five additional stitches on one of those pointless patches on the left arm of his jacket. Unless I am mistaken—which I rarely am—Virgil has not recently created a replica of any piece of his own clothing. Nor anyone else's, for that matter,” he added as an afterthought.  
“I—we could summon Deceit,” Roman said uncertainly, looking back and forth between the two of them. When neither rejected the idea, he tossed aside his whetstone and sprang up dramatically, sword waving wildly. “Deceit! Show yourself!”

-

“Wow, Roman. I love showing up where I'm not wanted.”  
“What have you done with our emo?”  
Deceit smirked. “I don't know the meaning of the word.”  
“Where's Virgil?” Patton asked quietly. One glance at his face told Logan that he innocently hoped for a truthful answer.  
“Why, didn't Thomas just summon you all today? Wasn't he there?” Deceit's eyes narrowed. “He's been missing for all of thirty seconds and you accuse me?”  
Roman looked away guiltily, his sword dropping to his side. Logan rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses onto his forehead in the action. “Deceit. We all know that Virgil was not present. We noticed your impersonation.”  
Deceit gasped, a gloved hand jumping to his mouth in faux surprise. “What? Me? You must be mistaken.”  
“What did you do with him?” asked Patton, his voice quavering.  
“Me? Do with him? Why would anyone want to do anything with him?”  
“Where is he, you fickle-faced snake?” Roman demanded, his sword up once more.  
“Wherever he is,” Deceit said carefully, “I don't believe he wants to be found. I suggest you leave. It. Alone.” With those punctuated words, he disappeared.  
“Well, that was thoroughly unhelpful,” Roman said a moment later. He dropped his sword and collapsed back onto his 'throne', radiating disappointment.  
“No, no actually. It was helpful,” Logan said, the gears in his head turning. “He knows where Virgil is—or why he's missing. He doesn't want us to know, though. Why?”  
“What does he gain?” Roman said slowly.  
Logan began pacing the length of the living room. “Theoretically, he could have many things to gain. Perhaps it's a matter of the heart. Maybe he is utilizing Virgil for information about us. Or,” he frowned, “maybe Virgil went to him.” Seeing Patton's look of concern, he hastily amended, “But I don't see why he would. Virgil has a considerable amount of animosity for Deceit. I sincerely doubt he would voluntarily accompany him anywhere.”  
“That settles it, then,” Patton said, sinking out. He reappeared several seconds later, his cat onesie bundled in his arms. “Let's go find Virgil.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - They're Too Loud https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfmkLkD-Goc
> 
> Tw: Anxiety attack, implications of torture

_“Say it. Say. It.” “I—” “Say. It!” “… I d-deserve this.” “I didn’t hear you.” “I deserve this!”_

Virgil groaned. It had been—what, a week? Two? Last time he’d known the date, he’d been here four days. Not that here was a great place to be. It was dark, cold, and uncomfortably dirty, the stones that made up the floor and walls covered in a thick layer of grime. His wrists ached from the chains and cuffs bolted into the far wall, but that was okay. He wasn’t chained up right now, so it was okay. He was okay. Well, mostly. Virgil was a little lonely.

Not that he wanted visitors—in fact, solitary confinement was much preferable to the—he shuddered—other option. He briefly wondered if the others missed him, then turned his thoughts away before he could feel that pang of guilt. It always struck when he thought about them. Patton looking at him with unconditional love in his eyes … his and Roman’s banter … Logan’s calming solutions to everything… .

Crap. There was that guilt.

Virgil tried to focus on something else. He hadn’t slept in—how long? Too long, probably—and his entire being was on edge. His thoughts raced faster than Daveed Diggs could rap, bouncing in that funny way that told him he wasn’t far from freaking out. He needed a distraction. Music! He could sing something.

His voice cracking, he forced out a few words.

“I lay on the carpet,

a wrench to let you in.

Carbonating emotion,

tears rising—”

He coughed and gasped, eyes rimming with tears, unable to continue. Hardly able to breathe.

_“Say it.”_

Virgil shook his head back and forth rapidly, trying to somehow get the voice out of his head.

_“Once more, then we’ll stop. Just say it once more.”_

“Get out of my head,” he choked. “It’s bad enough—then. Please.” He was on his knees, even though he thought he’d been standing before.

_“Do you really want me to do that again? All you have to do is say the words. Say it.”_

Virgil rubbed his shoulder, hyperventilating, feeling it sting with phantom pain. “I—” he gasped for air, close to sobbing. “I … deserve this.”

_“That’s right. Don’t. Forget it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song used is BREAKFAST by half alive


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Love Never Dies - The Coney Island Waltz https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8z4IBOmjXw
> 
> Tw: Remus

“So this is it,” Roman whispered. “This is as close as I’ve ever dared come to the Realm of the Dark Sides.”

“That’s a scary way to put it,” Patton whispered back, pulling his onesie closer around himself. Logan absentmindedly patted him on the shoulder. Roman was being a bit dramatic. So far, all they’d done was cross the Imagination, which, with Roman, was a short endeavor.

Roman screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Slower than slow, he lifted his foot and set it down cautiously on the other side of some invisible line. When nothing happened, he opened one eye, then the other, looking around, as if he’d been expecting a land mine. “That’s that, then,” he muttered.

“Onward!” he declared to the other two, his face shining with vigor. “On to unexplored lands!”

-

It was a little suffocating. They didn’t talk. Everything felt too close. It was almost exhausting to keep moving, as if their shoes were weighted, or they were trudging through sand.

“Well, for being the ‘Realm of the Dark Sides’, as Roman so eloquently put it,” Logan broke the silence, “it certainly isn’t all that dark.”

“It is odd, isn’t it?” Roman agreed, almost under his breath. “Although, it’s not exactly bright, is it?”

“It’s … grainy,” whispered Patton. “Like… .”

“An old cartoon on VHS,” Roman finished. “The quality is lower, and maybe there’s some water damage. Still watchable, just … painful to view.”

Logan rolled his eyes at the over-complicated comparison, accurate though it was. Then he frowned and straightened his glasses. The distance was … irresolute, he decided. Almost as if it didn’t know what it wanted to be. Looking around, though, revealed every direction to mirror that, even though he was certain they’d just been traipsing through a well-lit hallway.

“It’s all changing,” Roman said in awe.

“It is redesigning,” Logan corrected. “It’s an incredibly versatile environment. I would hypothesize that it looks different depending upon who it needs to represent. As none of us have ever been here before, it has to, well, buffer.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Patton softly, “in a … bad way.”

Roman nodded agreement, his brow furrowed. “It is… .”

Then, gradually but somehow suddenly, a hallway surrounded them. It was dimmer than before, spookier. There weren’t any doors or windows or hangings, just the occasional light bulb and peeling wallpaper.

“This is scary,” whispered Patton. Roman nodded again, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Don't—” Roman’s voice cracked— “Don’t fret, Patton,” he covered loudly, “I will protect you!”

“Boo!”

Roman screamed; Logan blinked; Patton threw himself behind the both of them.

Remus. Jazz hands, wide eyes, uncomfortably big smile.

“You!” said Roman.

“Me!”

“What business have you here?”

Remus dropped to the ground. “I should ask _you_ that,” he said, rolling onto his back, staring up at them with too-bright eyes. “After all, _you’re_ the ones in the Hallway to Hell!”

“That’s definitely over-exaggerated,” Logan commented.

Roman pulled a double take. “Are you joking? I wish I’d come up with that!”

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Patton said nervously. “Does it really go to … you know … H-E-double C-K?”

“Of course!”

“No,” Logan said firmly. “It’s _just_ a name, Patton.”

“I suppooooooose you’re looking for Viiirgiiil?” Remus asked, scooting toward them on his back. They watched as he stretched his feet over his forehead, bending in a way Thomas was definitely not capable of. He continued the reverse somersault, staring at them the entire time—even when his head was meant to be looking in the opposite direction. It just swiveled around on his neck, grinning at their obvious disgust. Finally, he completed the display of gymnastics, flat on his back once again.

“I’m sorry—what did you say?” Roman asked, shaking his head as if coming out of a reverie.

Remus grinned and snapped his fingers. Beside him, the wall dipped slightly, creating a small depression. It gradually pushed outward, billowing and rippling and wavering until a doorway, leading to black nothingness, was framed. “Perhaps you’ll find him.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder. At all appearances, the hallway was equally long in both directions. When he looked back, Remus was gone. Well, mostly. Two tall fingers remained, floating in the air where he’d been holding them up.

“I hate that guy,” muttered Roman. “Anyhow—into the black! Into the Unknown! No turning back! Onward, now all alone!”

“You aren’t alone,” Logan pointed out, confused. Roman ignored him and kept on.

Logan was, with good reason, concerned. Who knew where that pitch-black doorway could lead? Despite his misgivings, though, Logan followed, trying to shake the sensation that they were being watched.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Bon Jovi - (It's Hard) Letting You Go https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVKaCiZ3Y9o
> 
> Tw: mentions of torture, panicking, crying, lots of crying, unsympathetic Deceit (but you already knew that)

At this point it was just boring, Virgil thought, trying to examine his own back, shirt and jacket on the grimy stone floor. It would have been easier to see if there was maybe some light. There could be, of course—all the sides could radiate colored light—but Virgil really didn’t have the energy to waste. He didn’t care _too_ much. He didn’t need it, really. It was a want. His back was probably looking fine.

He didn’t really see the need to immediately put his shirt on, so he didn’t. He liked being cold sometimes. It was a nice change. He slowly, gingerly, lowered himself into a sitting position, taking note of how much easier it was on his back than it had been even the day before, not to mention when he’d first tried to move after … yeah. After Deceit.

He rapidly shook his head, as if to banish the name. Virgil hadn’t seen the Side since … practically the beginning, since—_it—_was put into effect, and he’d become fearful that if he thought about him too much, it would summon the snake.

And it looked like his fears were being confirmed. As if on cue, the door at the other end of the room creaked open. Virgil shielded his eyes from the sudden light, barely holding back a hiss. He scrambled and slid backward until he hit the freezing wall, his back screaming in protest. He wasn’t ready yet—he couldn’t face _him—_he hadn’t healed yet—he needed more _time—_

“Virgil?”

The sound of _that_ voice—_here_—was scarier than Deceit’s. Virgil lowered his hand, absorbing the light—not yellow, as he’d expected.

Blue. Red. A darker blue. They—they cared. They actually cared. They’d come for him.

_No._

-

“Virgil?” Patton said, immediately observing the Side at the other end of the long, dark room.

Logan took it in. Stone, mildew smell, grimy, cold. Several rusting chains bolted into the left wall. A cloth sack in a corner. Virgil, shirtless, dirty, hands shielding his eyes, pressed up against the far wall, which was approximately forty feet away. His shirt and jacket thrown on the floor about five feet in front of the Side. Typical dungeon, he thought. Odd, seeing as they’d climbed a set of stairs to get here.

“What is going _on _here?” Roman asked incredulously.

Virgil’s hands lowered to his mouth, his eyes squinting at the group. “What are you doing here?” he breathed, barely loud enough to be heard. “What are you doing here?” he repeated, louder, his voice hoarse and cracking.

“We’re here to rescue you,” said Patton, starting across the room.

“No—stay away!”

Patton froze. Exchanging a look, Logan and Roman both stepped forward a pace or two. It was possible they would need to restrain Patton, Logan acknowledged. Sometimes, the father figure just had no concept of personal space.

Virgil inched forward, his eyes darting around the room. He grabbed his shirt and jacket; held them clutched to his chest.

“Please. …” he almost begged, pulling his shirt over his head. “Just go.”

“Not without you.”

Patton, please! Go.”

Patton took one step, then another. He held his hands in the air, apparently going for a non-threatening approach. “It’s just me, Virge. We can talk about it. Is it okay for me to come closer?”

Virgil shook his head, but reached out at the same time. Patton crossed the distance between them in a few long strides. He knelt down in front of the crouched figure, his arms open. When Virgil didn’t move, Patton slowly—likely so Virgil could push him away if he wanted—wrapped his arms around him, pretending not to notice when Virgil pretended not to flinch.

“I’m so sorry—” Virgil started, his voice heavy with held-back tears.

“Shh,” Patton hushed. “It’s okay.” He combed his fingers through Virgil’s hair, making soft shushing noises.

Over his shoulder, Virgil’s eyes found Logan’s. _Leave, _he mouthed. _Now._

Logan nodded. He didn’t know why Virgil wanted them to leave, but he likely had a good reason. If they needed to, they could come back later, when Virgil was more secure. “Patton, let’s go.”

Patton threw him a look. “We just got here!”

“We do need to go,” Roman said, looking uneasy. “Something isn’t right.”

“Not without Virgil,” Patton said, pulling the Side in question closer. Virgil groaned and gently pushed him away.

“Patton, please. I’m fine. Just go.”

Patton held him out at arm’s length and examined him. Logan took in what Patton must have been seeing—the dirt-smudged and scraped-up face, his exhausted eyes, the stiff way he was holding himself.

“Come home,” Patton whispered. A tear slid from Virgil’s eye, leaving a track in the dirt on his face.

“I swear, I’m fine. Please. Please go.”

“Come on, Padre,” urged Roman. He was nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Go with them,” Virgil insisted. Patton sniffed, sounding as if he was crying, although Logan couldn’t see his face. Virgil gripped his shoulder. “Everything will turn out all right.”

“I can’t leave without you!”

“Now, now, what have we here?”

Roman spun around as Logan glanced over his shoulder. Deceit, composed as ever, stood silhouetted in the doorway. The blood drained from Virgil’s face. He blinked several times, as if to confirm the sight before him.

“Virgil, answer me truthfully,” Deceit said. “Did we agree on anything to do with this?”

“Yes,” Virgil said through gritted teeth.

Deceit rubbed his chin in thought. “Care to relate to me what we decided?”

Virgil looked away, another tear silently making its way down his face.

“Very unexpected response,” Deceit said lazily. “Now, if you could confirm this for me—so your little friends don’t think I’m lying—we said that one of them would have to stay, correct?”

Virgil nodded.

“And for how long?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“So,” Deceit spread his arms wide, “who’ll it be?”

Patton stood, taking Virgil by the shoulder. “I’ll stay,” he said firmly, tears still streaming down his face.

“Uh-uh,” Deceit waved a finger. “Virgil chooses.”

Virgil’s eyes roamed the room, avoiding his friends’ faces at all costs. Eventually, looking at his own knees, he spoke. “Roman.”

“The pauper chooses his prince!” Deceit said delightedly. “Take his sword, Logic. He won’t need it.”

_Me?_ Roman mouthed as Logan held his hands out. Virgil avoided eye contact with the both of them, looking at Patton instead.

“Go with Logan,” he said. “Roman will be fine. I will too.”

Patton sniffed again, but nodded. Logan relieved Roman of his sword, then waited for Patton and followed him out of the room. The last thing he saw was Virgil shrugging on his jacket, glaring at Deceit.

Then the door closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this one will have more whump than anything posted on this story so far. Fair warning.
> 
> Recommended listening: Cavetown - Poison https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwUUqHpJEYg
> 
> Tw: Chains, brief depictions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, brief mentions of blood

“The chains, Virgil, if you would.”

Virgil slowly rose to his feet, feeling for all the world like he was going to be attacked. He walked stiffly to Roman, skirting wide around Deceit, who still stood in the doorway.

“Come on,” Virgil muttered, noticing the slight echo under his voice. He hated how confused Roman looked. It was classic Princey, looking confused, but Virgil knew what was happening next.

“What—what’s happening—?”

“Come on.” He dragged the prince by his sleeve. Roman stumbled a second, but followed. Followed him to the chains in the wall. Sat when Virgil pressed his shoulder. Held his hands out implicitly as Virgil clasped the cuffs around his wrists. Smiled slightly when he stepped away. Innocent. Willing. Trusting.

Disgusting.

“In the corner.”

Without asking, Virgil knew which corner he was being ordered to. The far back corner. Full view of Roman, but too far to help. He took his time getting there. Roman was only bound here for twenty-four hours—every minute counted.

Deceit watched him with an amused expression. He obviously knew what Virgil was doing. Still he dawdled, even tripping and falling flat on his face, eliciting a grimace for his back and leaving a scrape on his face.

Eventually, though, he had to reach the corner. He had to stand, knees shaking imperceptibly, and watch that snake approach Roman. He watched as Deceit reached into his sleeve and dragged into existence a thin length of chain made of yellow light, the links tiny. He snapped his fingers; Roman’s regal top disappeared and re-appeared on the floor nearby, leaving him shirtless.

“Oh, I just washed that… .”

“A serious problem,” Deceit smirked. “I’m so sorry. Now, brace yourself, Roman. Be… .” his eyes flicked away, a look of—empathy? Something—crossed his face, then his eyes were back on Roman’s determined gaze. “Be brave, prince.” With that, he viciously kicked Roman onto his stomach and raised the chain.

Virgil couldn’t look away as the prince stifled scream after scream, but a tear made another track down his chin when they burst out loud and clear.

-

The room went dark as the door closed. At some point during the brutality, Roman had stopped radiating his soft red light, likely trying to stay conscious. This was as good a reason as any to use the energy his own light required. Virgil willed it into existence; with the purple glow, he could see Roman’s curled figure across the room. He spanned the distance in several seconds, almost running, carefully avoiding the crumpled uniform on the cold stones.

“Oh, Ro… .” he breathed, kneeling at his side. Roman’s right eye was swollen shut, a trail of purpling bruises dripping blood and leading down the side of his face. His left eye squinted at Virgil through a haze of pain.

“Oh, gosh. Can you roll over? I need to see your back.”

“Everything hurts… .” Roman slurred.

“I know. Sorry about this.” Virgil grimaced and rolled him gingerly onto his stomach, cringing at the whimper that escaped the Side.

“Okay Princey, this … doesn’t look too bad,” Virgil lied. It looked awful—his entire back was a mess of black and blue and purple marks, with the occasional cut spilling blood onto the conglomeration. Virgil’s back twinged in sympathy. It hadn’t been too long since he’d been in the same position.

“You really shouldn’t turn to look,” he advised. “He didn’t mean to hit your face.”

The only response was a muffled groan.

Virgil reached out and lightly traced his spine, ignoring the cries of protest, pressing down in some places. Then he moved to his ribs, pressing each one. “Tell me if this hurts.”

“It _all _hurts.”

“Does it hurt to breathe?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a surface pain, or like, a cracked rib?”

“. . . Yes.”

Virgil almost groaned in frustration. He didn’t know much about first aid, but had a general idea that broken anything wasn’t good. He couldn’t get Roman help until the time was up, but he didn’t even know how long it had been. He’d started a mental clock as soon as Logan and Patton had left, but with the sound of the chain hitting flesh, and Deceit’s taunts (not aimed at Roman), his stress levels had gone through the roof and his inner clock was steadily blinking a red 12:00.

“It’s only twenty-four hours,” he said, mostly to himself. “Logan will know what to do.”

“What—what is going on here?” Roman asked weakly. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you. Not really.” It was part of the deal, after all. “But it’s something that I—that’s necessary. Just—please. Don’t come looking again. Actually,” he added, “how did you find me? It must have taken days—it’s not supposed to be easy. Barely possible, in fact.”

There was a long silence. For a moment, Virgil thought the creative Side had finally lost consciousness. However, Roman finally spoke, his voice under-toned with something akin to guilt.

“Remus showed us.”

Virgil cursed. Of course! How could he forget to add a clause about Remus? He started to stand, intending to pace, but Roman reached out, chains clanking as his hand found Virgil’s.

“Please … stay,” he said, twisting his head around as far as possible without rolling onto his back. His good eye met both of Virgil’s.

“Princey, you need to rest. Try and sleep.”

“I will,” Roman assured. “But … would you stay? With your light?”

A memory hit him.

_“Sorry, everyone. I hate the dark.”_

Roman was scared of the dark.

It made sense, he supposed. He was creativity, after all. Anything could be behind him—literally. Remus could be. Virgil had seen that happen firsthand.

“Okay, then,” he said, easing himself into a relaxed position, leaning up against the wall with his legs outstretched. “I’ll stay.”

“Just. Don’t let your light out.”

“I won’t.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Oh Hellos - The Lament of Eustace Scrubb https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QHlTMxBzguI
> 
> Tw: Abusive Deceit, but he has reasons, a knife, graphic (but pretty brief) depictions of violence, Virgil freaks out a bit, and cries, he's a sad boi, Roman angst

“Why can’t you tell me?”

It was—well, sometime later. Roman had managed to get in a good bit of sleep. Virgil had stayed awake—whether he’d been keeping watch, or just thinking too fast, he didn’t know—and nothing had happened. No one had come in. No one had even knocked—something that occurred on occasion for some reason. Roman hadn’t even stirred. The peacefulness only served to put him more on edge. Something was going to happen. Deceit wasn’t done with Roman. He was going to come back. When, he didn’t know. But he was coming.

Now, however, Roman was wide awake, resting his head on his crossed arms, still spread out on his stomach. As simple as the question sounded, Virgil couldn’t see a way to answer it.

“I just can’t, okay?” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

“From what I can gather,” Roman said, “you are here willingly. It has to do with Deceit. He has hurt you, likely similar to my afflictions. And you don’t want to come back—or perhaps you can’t. Is that true?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Roman groaned in frustration. “Why do you have to be so difficult, Livin’ On A Scare?”

Virgil almost smiled at the nickname. It was clear that sleep had done Roman some good. He knew that the nicknames weren’t meant to be hurtful, they were a form of artistic expression, something Roman did to get the creative juices flowing. In fact, rather than causing offense, they generally put the anxious side more at ease, bringing a sense of companionable normalcy to the conversation.

“Just … when you get back, could you keep Pat and Logan away?” Virgil changed the subject. “They mean well and all, it’s just so much worse when this sort of thing—” he gestured vaguely—“could happen.”

“If I can, I shall,” promised Roman. “But I have to ask—why me? Why was I the one you chose?”

Faced with a question he could actually answer, Virgil found himself without words.

“Well, um, you’re strong,” he eventually stuttered. “I dunno. I thought maybe Patton or Logan would … break. It sounds stupid, I know.”

“No. It sounds right,” Roman said soberly. “In fact, while it was—going on, I found myself grateful that it was I, not one of them.”

That wasn’t all, though. Virgil would never say it, but Roman was, in a way, replaceable. If he broke, Thomas would still function—even if Remus wasn’t exactly ideal for the role of general creativity.

“I’m not as important as them, anyway,” Virgil heard the prince mutter, several minutes later. He chose not to respond—not because he agreed, he just didn’t know what to say.

As time passed, Roman slipped into unconsciousness once again, but his sleep was more heavily disturbed than it had been. He whimpered and mumbled and tried to roll over, then woke from the pain, then scrunched his eyes shut until he fell asleep again.

It wasn’t the worst sleep pattern Virgil had ever seen (he was anxiety, after all), but it definitely was not what the Side needed to recover.

Virgil was exhausted as well, but was convinced that this was not the time to sleep. Deceit could return at any moment. He was high-strung, his light a little brighter than it should be. Likely, if he spoke, an echo would bring intense depth to his voice. He couldn’t just sit there, he needed to pace, but Roman needed him, but he needed to get out, but he couldn’t leave—

Instead, he shifted his weight and turned his head away from Roman. He rubbed his face, breathing measured breaths. In for five, out for eight. In for four, hold for three, out for ten. In for six, out for twelve.

Slowly, his eyes flickered shut.

-

“Well, this isn’t cute at all,” a voice drawled through Virgil’s subconscious. His eyes flashed open. Blearily, he took in his surroundings. He was curled up on his side, his purple light a soft, barely-there glow. Judging by the warmth on his back, he was pressed up against Roman. He scrambled up, intending to check on the Side, but a yellow light tore his eyes away.

Deceit loomed over them, that little smirk of his somehow both patronizing and loathing. Without thinking, Virgil asked the question that had plagued his dreams.

“How much longer?”

Roman stirred at the sound of his voice.

“_All_ the time, Virgil. After all, our prince has just arrived.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. A leap of fear had risen in his chest at the words, but he forced it down. Deceit was lying, of course. He was certain that the only reason the Side was here was because the time was almost up, and while Deceit was many things, one thing he was not was someone who reneged on his contracts. He’d learned that much, at least.

Virgil tried to shake the thoughts from his head. It wasn’t good to dwell on the past.

“I’m so sorry to do this,” Deceit said. “I definitely don’t want to tear you away from your prince, but the corner is _begging_ for your presence.”

Despite himself, Virgil felt his face heat up. He knew better than to talk back, though.

He rose to his feet and started toward the detestable corner, but a gloved hand catching his face gave him pause. The hand cupped his cheek; he reluctantly raised his eyes to meet Deceit’s cold, mismatched ones.

“Good boy,” Deceit said softly. Without warning, the hand rose and fell with astounding force, delivering a stinging slap. He recoiled several steps, windmilling a bit, then stumbled on, his face burning. What hurt more, though, was the message Deceit was obviously trying to convey.

_“You should be grateful for me! You’re worthless, but I took pity on you! Stop crying, you little freak!”_

He blinked back the memories like they were tears forming.

Meanwhile, Roman blinked blearily. “Virgil?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. Deceit knelt beside him, caressing his hair almost lovingly. Virgil refrained from gagging when Roman subtly leaned in to his touch.

“Just a little pain,” whispered Deceit. He reached into an unknown pocket with one hand, the other still coursing through Roman’s hair. A sharp dagger glinted as he slid it from the pocket. “Just a little pain, then I can save you.”

Slowly, careful not to nick the Side with the knife, Deceit rolled him onto his back. When Roman inevitably cried out, he immediately stopped and returned to running his hand through his hair, cooing soothing words. It took time, but eventually Roman lay on his back, eyes screwed shut.

Deceit lightly pressed the point of the dagger onto his bare, dirt-smudged chest. Roman shivered at the touch and struggled to sit up, the attempt aborted when Deceit gently pushed him down with his free hand.

“Don’t look, Princey. It’ll only make it worse,” Deceit said, then whispered again. “Just a little pain.”

He drove the dagger into his chest, dragging it down, ignoring Roman’s shouts of pain that were quickly becoming bloodcurdling screams.

Virgil bit hard on the inside of his cheek, forgetting his own pain, trying not to scream as well—whether support for Roman, or a wordless articulation of his anger, he didn’t know. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sick scene before him: Roman writhing and screaming, Deceit holding him in place with one hand, carving—carving _letters—_into his chest with the other, his forked tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. Deceit glanced over his shoulder to make eye contact with Virgil at random, ensuring the Side was watching. His twisted grin when he confirmed his viewer was somehow the worst, though. Worse than the screams, worse than the act he was committing.

At some point, Roman’s light, which had been flickering since he woke, blinked completely out. His screams never paused.

-

“What do you think of my handiwork, Virgil?”

Virgil nearly hurled at the neat, huge letters spilling blood onto Roman’s torso. The Side was breathing heavily, a little whine of pain accompanying each exhale.

Deceit smirked at Virgil’s obvious abhorrence. “They’ll scar,” he said, truthful for once. “I would know.”

Virgil turned his eyes away, glad to finally be able to. He wasn’t able to look at the door for long, though.

“Get the chains off.”

He took a moment to compose himself, then lurched toward the prince. He should have been grateful to unchain him, should have been happy to see him go. All he could think about, though, was how his head would forever echo with Roman’s screams.

Roman didn’t react when Virgil released his wrists from the cuffs. Tears continued to spill down his face, though; his breathing continued to to sound pained.

Virgil leaned close to his ear, pretending to be listening to his breathing. “Protect them,” he whispered. He waited until he saw a glint of acknowledgment in his open eye, then backed away, wiping his bloody hands onto his pants.

Deceit snapped his fingers and, for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, Roman was completely dressed. His shirt-tunic-thing (Virgil never knew what to call it) almost immediately blossomed with bloodstains, but seeing him look more princely calmed Virgil a bit—even if his head still lolled and he still made noises of pain.

“Up you go,” said Deceit, clapping his hands. Roman was instantly on his feet, swaying, falling into Deceit’s open arms. A look of surprise flitted across his features as he stumbled back a few steps.

“Woah, I—I totally didn’t expect you to weigh the same as your brother,” he grunted.

“Yes, w-well, I… .” Roman trailed off with small chirp of pain. Virgil tried to relax even more. If Roman was already trying to make comebacks, then he would be okay, he told himself. Definitely. He could stop worrying.

“All right, I’m not going to carry you,” Deceit said bluntly. “You’ll need to walk with me. Left foot … there we go. Right foot. Okay. Left foot. Stop crying, Prince. Right foot. Virgil, open the door. Left foot.”

Virgil did as he was told, trying not to stare as Roman teetered and stumbled, trying not to flinch every time Deceit slapped Roman upside the head.

The two exited, Deceit’s bowler hat askew, Roman’s face ashen. Virgil watched them from the doorway as they got farther away, saw Roman completely collapse about halfway down the hall.

“Close the door, Virgil,” Deceit called without looking back. Again, Virgil did as he was told. He leaned against the closed door, rubbing his eyes. Slowly, he slid to the floor. Hours and hours of holding back the deluge pressing at the inside of his face came to an end.

Virgil sobbed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: George Martin - Pepperland Laid Waste https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGauvWfU-eY
> 
> Tw: Crying, Deceit, blood, like a decent amount of blood, descriptions of injuries, ya boi Roman's in a lot of pain, mild panic

Logan hadn’t left the kitchen since they’d gotten back. Patton had been hopping from room to room, bursting into tears at random, nervously grinning and cracking jokes otherwise.

Logan knew he had feelings—much as he liked to deny it—but Patton’s reaction made him doubt that he actually did. After all, someone worried for their friends didn’t just sit at a table, taking the daily notes and reading. It was troubling, but definitely a matter for another time.

For the fourth time in the past hour, Patton sidled into the kitchen. For the fifth time in the past hour, he opened the fridge.

“The contents haven’t changed, Patton,” Logan said absently. Looking up, he saw Patton’s face crumpling.

“When will they be back, Logan?”

Logan sighed. Patton hadn’t yet asked outright, a sure sign of his growing distress. “They said twenty-four hours, remember? It’ll be any minute now.”

Instead of responding, Patton opened his arms. Logan reluctantly stood from the table. He’d found himself on the receiving end of Morality’s affections one too many times, but allowed the Side to envelop him in a hug. He smiled a little despite himself, and patted his back as Patton sniffled into his shoulder.

“Roman?”

Logan spun around at Patton’s exclamation; through the kitchen doorway he could see Roman in a heap on the floor, Deceit doubled-over beside him. “Roman,” he muttered, his feet moving without instruction into the living room.

“Never … again,” Deceit gasped. He straightened, his face flushed from exertion. “If there’s a … a next time, Remus is helping.” Before either could question him, he sank out.

“Where did he go?” Patton wondered aloud. Logan was already on his knees, turning Roman over so his face was visible. Roman groaned as Logan took in the swath of bruising on the right side of his face, swelling that eye shut.

“Roman?” he asked clearly. “Can you hear me?”

“Mm-hm,” came the mumbled response. “So. So loud.”

“Can I hug him?” asked Patton, inching closer.

Roman flinched, apparently involuntarily. Logan filed the movement away. “Maybe not … not just. Yet,” Roman grimaced, finally opening the eye that was able to open.

“Is Virgil in similar condition?” Logan asked suddenly. Roman’s eye met his. In a brief moment, Logan interpreted fear, pain, and something akin to … distrust? Then Roman looked away, ending the moment.

“We’ve got to save him, Lo,” Patton said, gripping his arm with surprising strength. Logan looked up at him. Determination dominated his features. Patton was right. Virgil was likely worse injured, even. He nodded agreement and also stood. Roman needed treatment, of course, and he felt uneasy abandoning him, but the side was certainly responsive. He knew how to take care of himself, he reasoned.

“I’ll go make a couple sandwiches,” Patton said, ‘dad mode’ kicking in. Logan followed him into the kitchen.

“Do you think he’ll be fine alone?” Logan asked thoughtfully, genuinely wanting to hear a second opinion. Patton shrugged, getting peanut butter from an overhead cabinet.

“We need to save Virge,” he said simply. At those words, Logan recalled something Virgil himself had said.

“Correct me if I’m wrong—which I’m not—but didn’t Virgil not want to be rescued?”

Patton shrugged again. “He wants to. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Logan frowned. None of this seemed right. Why was Deceit keeping Virgil locked up, and why didn’t he want to come back? Was it a case of something similar to Stockholm Syndrome?

Or was he asking the wrong question?

What proof did they have that Deceit was keeping Virgil imprisoned?

“Patton, we need to rethink this—”

“Too late, Lo. Let’s go.” Patton threw the butter-knife into the sink and dropped the two sandwiches into a Ziploc.

“I’m simply suggesting—”

Patton pushed past him and into the living room. “Roman, we're—Roman!”

Logan wheeled around, the second time a Roman-related outburst had caused him to do so. Roman had dragged himself to the front door and was leaning against it, his arms flung out. Sweat poured down his pale face, which was whiter than his clothes—which, for the first time, Logan noticed were stained with blood.

“You can’t come with us,” Patton said.

“Don’t … don’t … want… .” Roman gasped. “Stay… .”

Something was _very_ wrong here. Alarm bells were clanging a warning in Logan’s head. Sure, so many things about this scene were wrong, but something in Roman’s wide eye. Something in the way he was holding himself. Something in the bloodstains that were spreading as he watched. Something serious had happened to Roman—something that had caused his light to go out. He was clearly more injured than he was trying to appear.

“Patton, wait,” Logan interrupted the steadily growing argument between the two. Patton turned pleading eyes on him.

“Logan, Virgil is—”

“Patton. Wait.” Patton fell quiet. “Roman, may I help you stand?”

“You—you won’t … leave?”

“I give you my word.” When Roman didn’t protest further, just dropped his head wearily, Logan approached him. He reached under his arm and around his back, freezing when he heard a very un-princely whimper. “Are you all right?”

Roman grimaced. “Jus’ … make it quick, S-Specs.”

Logan obeyed, pulling him up as fast as possible. A yell escaped Roman’s tightly pursed lips.

“Patton, get a kitchen stool.”

Patton hesitated, looking between the now-unblocked door and the kitchen, obviously torn now that his path was clear.

“_Patton._”

The Side made his decision, scurrying into the kitchen. He came back almost instantly, hefting the stool under one arm.

“Put it down right here.” As soon as the seat was in place, Logan pushed Roman out of the awkward hug-thing they were in. “It’s right behind you, Roman. Sit down slowly. It doesn’t have a back, so don’t fall.”

As soon as Roman was eased onto the stool, Logan turned to Patton, not quite letting go of the prince. “Unbutton his top,” he instructed, moving behind Roman. “Then we’ll pull it off.”

“Take me … take me out … f-for dinnerrr first-t,” slurred Roman. Both ignored him.

“There’s only a clasp, at the neck,” Patton supplied. “It’s undone.”

Logan stared blankly at the dirt-stained back of Roman’s uniform, trying to gauge how painful it would be. “All right, over his head. Three. Two. One.”

“It’s sticking!” fretted Patton as Roman groaned.

“Stop!” Logan said. “Slower. Pull it away from him, okay?”

Patton nodded, looking a little ill. “Patton?” Logan said. He waited until his eyes were met before continuing. “Everything will be okay.” Patton nodded again. “Now. Let us—'get this bread’, as they say.”

“Mm,” Roman said. “Tha’ … tha’s not right.”

Logan ignored him. He watched closely as Patton peeled away Roman’s top, stopping at every wince from the creative Side.

“Now we’ll lift it. Roman, can you raise your arms?”

Roman obliged, slowly stretching his fingers toward the ceiling. Just as slowly, Logan and Patton lifted the uniform off.

Logan literally cringed at the sight of the prince’s back. He couldn’t see a single inch of pale skin, just a purple and black mass, cracking with dried blood. He immediately assumed a whip had been taken to the back, but upon closer inspection, he could make out a few bruises shaped like miniature chain links.

“Roman, this is horrifying,” he said before he could stop himself. “Did Deceit do this?” Roman didn’t answer, just let his head flop back into Logan’s open hands. “Patton, you should see this.”

“Uh, no, Lo,” Patton said nervously. “_You_ need to see _this_.”

That was odd. The tone of voice Patton used was the one he’d come to associate with spiders and other things that scared the moral Side. He gently let Roman’s head drop and started to shift to his front, eyes still fixed on the bruising. Possibly Deceit had covered the creative Side’s chest in spiders, which, while unexpected, would—

Ah.

“Cloth. Wet,” Logan said, his voice almost dangerously low. Patton sped off into the kitchen.

“I . . . I didn’ wan’ … you t-to see,” Roman stuttered.

Again, Logan ignored him. His chest was soaked in blood, spilling from dozens of cuts, but—did those cuts spell something?

“Here’s the cloth.”

“Bandages. Ro’s room. Top shelf.”

Patton seemed glad to have a reason leave again. In all honesty, Logan wished he could, too. He wasn’t about to let anyone else do this job, though.

A sharp intake of breath greeted the first touch of the cloth, which was colder than Logan would have preferred. One glance at Roman’s tilted-up face, however, told him that the gasp was caused by pain, not temperature. He gritted his teeth and kept dabbing at the cuts. Roman’s hands flew up in protest, trying to push Logan’s hand holding the dripping cloth away.

“Roman, must I restrain you?”

Roman’s head shot straight up; his open eye darted around the room frantically before landing on Logan. “N-no, please.”

Logan held his gaze and nodded. It was clear this was a trigger—and, judging by the light green bruises on the Side’s wrists, something that had recently been an affliction.

He moved on from the subject, focusing on cleaning the wounds. They definitely spelled something. Was that a D? And an M?

Roman didn’t try and fight his ministrations now, but his hands were curled into balls at his sides, as if he was holding himself back.

“I’ve got them,” Patton called from the staircase that led to their rooms. His head popped around the corner of the doorway. “Do you need them now?”

Logan took a step back, blood dripping from the cloth as well as from Roman, staining the carpet in little pools. He could make out letters here and there, but blood was welling up again. He swiped the cloth over the letters once more, and for a split second, it was all there, completely visible and legible. His heart nearly stopped at those words, those words that now seemed so obvious, and he wondered how on earth he had not been able to read them previously.

“Logan? What is it?”

Logan quickly schooled his features and met Patton’s eyes. “Nothing,” he lied. “Just … many cuts. Could you get the rubbing alcohol and some cotton or a clean cloth? The bathroom cabinet.”

Even as he dabbed the disinfectant on the cuts, even as Roman cried out at the stinging, even as Patton rubbed the prince’s head, murmuring words of comfort, Logan couldn’t force the image of those words out of his head. They were seared into his memory, flashing behind his eyelids.

Later, when Roman was finally asleep in bed, and Patton was in a chair at his bedside, Logan stood at the bathroom sink, watching the water run pink as he held his hands unmoving under the flow. He looked up at the mirror, intending to see if there were any specks of red on his face, but all he could see was those words, welling with blood, carved sickeningly neatly into human skin.

_Don’t come for him again._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is going to be a bit different, guys. Fair warning.
> 
> Recommended listening: IDKHow - Modern Day Cain https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEOSiZMiZiA
> 
> Tw: Needles, unknown drugs, angst, medical equipment/machinery, brief description of injury, like super brief, like just a few words brief, little bit of panic, I think that’s everything

The woman pushed him onto the sliding table. “Stay calm,” she said reassuringly. He trusted her, for some reason. Maybe it was her relaxed expression, or her comforting yellow blouse. However, he didn’t lie down yet, as she seemed to expect him to do. Instead, Roman glanced around at the twenty-some professional individuals sitting at the desks in the room. It was an odd setup, him and the MRI machine at the front of the room, the suited men and women half-paying attention. It reminded him in some ways of a classroom, but they definitely weren’t in any school he’d ever been to. It was sleek and modernistic, with the wall opposite, at the back of the room, entirely constructed of glass. Through the walls, far below, he could see the edge of a parking lot, tiny people walking to an out-of-sight entrance in the building, leading him to guess he was on an upper floor. The ceiling was high—high enough that he wondered if this was the top floor.

“Please, lie down.”

Roman obeyed now, almost unthinkingly. He couldn’t rightly recall why he was here—a test of some sort? Probably.

The unnamed woman loomed over him, a sugary smile on her face, a syringe balanced in her fingers. “This will go into your chest,” she explained, gesturing to the syringe. “Then I’ll wheel the table into the machine. Are you ready?”

Roman nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the people in the room grow more attentive, some closing laptops, others pulling notepads out of desks.

As the syringe came closer, Roman panicked internally, realizing he was still wearing his shirt (a maroon t-shirt, which felt wrong for some reason). The woman didn’t seem to mind, though, so he didn’t bring it up. Instead, he focused on her long dark hair with blond highlights, her yellow blouse, her oddly cold hazel eyes behind rectangular glasses.

The tip of the needle pushed through his shirt; a shiver went up his spine at the cold metal on his skin. He observed wryly that it was directly above his heart, then squinted his eyes shut in preparation (of what, he didn’t know) as she pushed it into his chest with a tiny prick of pain, then pressed the plunger down. Then—

His eyes shot open at the pain. Burning, vision-sharpening pain. He gasped as it spread outward from the needlepoint, hitting his fingertips and bouncing back to his chest in waves. A bespectacled man seated near the front of the room frowned at his obvious discomfort, then tapped something out on his computer.

“Time to start the MRI. How are you feeling?”

Roman gritted his teeth. “Ow,” he managed. A flurry of activity from the viewers. The woman nodded expectantly.

“It hurts, doesn’t it? It’ll put you to sleep, so try and relax.”

Roman took a stuttering breath and closed his eyes. She was right; he needed to relax. The machine started up, a lot of whirring a banging and loud beeps drowning out the sounds of typing and pencils scratching. His stomach lurched as the table he was on rolled into the large cylinder.

“Roman!” _Bang bang bang. _His eyes shot open.

“Roman!”

He tilted his head back. On a side of the room he hadn’t paid attention to was a wall of glass, encasing the landing of a staircase. A man was on the other side, pounding on the glass that separated them, hollering his name. The man seemed familiar to Roman. He was dressed casually, blue jeans with a plum-colored sweater. An odd choice, he thought. It wasn’t all that cold.

“Get out!” the man shouted, barely audible. “They’re killing you! Get out!”

Pandemonium broke out. The previously calm woman was yelling, people were throwing things aside and pushing back chairs, the machine seemed louder than ever, four heavyset individuals were heading toward the glass, presumably to take care of the man—Roman ignored it all in favor of crawling out of the MRI machine. His breath came in short, pained gasps as he swung his legs over the side of the table, pain shooting through every muscle in his body.

The world spun as he stood. The cacophony of noise around him was overshadowed by the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his head, not as even as he would’ve like it.

_Help_, Roman tried to say. “Hngh,” came out of his mouth. He wasn’t quite sure where he was trying to go. The wall of windows? That seemed like a good goal. How to break through it, though?

A wooden chair, vacated moments before. Roman stumbled toward it, almost oblivious to the chaos around him. Using what felt like every ounce of his strength, Roman picked it up and took a few wobbly steps at a run, wincing as he launched the chair at the glass. It crashed through, little shards of glass flying in every direction, leaving a spider-webbing hole in its wake. The panicking around him multiplied, accompanied by screams, but Roman ignored it. It was crucial that he got out—and quickly, he realized, his vision blackening around the edges as the pain grew more intense.

He lurched forward a few steps. He realized that he was barefoot as he stepped on some glass, but didn’t have time to stop. His heartbeat was slowing, the pounding in his head thickening, his body on fire, the room growing hazy—

_Badum, badum, badum. Badum . . badum … badum… ._

Then Roman’s head scraped glass and he tripped—and fell. And fell. The concrete was far, too far. The wind rushed past his ears as his eyes blinked shut, but sounded like it was coming from the end of a very long tunnel. He forced his eyes open in time to see the pavement coming closer toward him at an alarming rate, felt his knee skin the pavement, then snap, then—

He was trapped, tied, restrained, he couldn’t get out, he was fighting his bonds but hurt, hurt so bad, and—

“Help!” The word tore from his dry throat.

“Shh, it’s okay, kiddo. We’re right here.”

Who? Who was where? It was dark, and he _hated_ the dark, and he couldn’t _move—_

“Calm down, bud, thrashing around like that can’t help!”

“Where am I?” he cried out, his voice cracking painfully. Memories started to leak into his head. “What—will I be okay?”

Silence.

“What was in the syringe?” he tried.

“Syringe? What syringe?” the voice said quietly, sounding scared.

“The—the one? The yellow lady?”

“Deceit?” another voice asked.

“I—” he gasped in pain. He was still burning from whatever he’d been injected with, his back, his chest, his face— “It was poison! I’ll die!” He tried to get up again, but the bindings and pain held him down.

“Roman, don’t try to get up,” the second voice instructed. “It will only make it worse. You’ll reopen your wounds.”

“Wounds … from the glass? Or from falling? How’s my knee?”

Another silence.

“I don’t believe there was any glass involved,” the second voice said doubtfully.

“Your knee is fine, Ro,” the first voice added.

“What?” That was confusing. He struggled against his bindings again, ignoring the arrows of pain that shot through his body.

“Oh, you’re all tangled up in your blankets. Logan wouldn’t let me fix it while you were sleeping.”

A pair of hands guided him out of what was now known to be blankets, not ropes or something of the sort. It was still pitch-black and unknown, but at least he could breathe again.

“Go back to sleep,” the second voice said softly. “You and Thomas both need it.”

He nodded a little. Now that he was starting to calm down, he could feel the warm embrace of sleep pulling at him. A vague part of him wondered if the drug injected into his chest was finally giving him the mercy of sleep First, though, there was something he needed to know.

“Did he get out?” he slurred. “The … the purple man.”

Someone cleared their throat.

“Don’t worry about it right now,” the first voice said. “He’s … he’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an actual dream I had just before writing this. I mean, there were some details different (I was in Roman’s place, I have no clue what the woman was wearing, and the man in purple was someone else), but I tried to be as accurate and vivid as I could. Also, when I woke up, the point where (in the dream) the needle had punctured my chest burned. Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: twenty one pilots - Message Man https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iE_54CU7Fxk
> 
> Tw: Blood, description of violence/injuries, Deceit

“I do hope you enjoyed the entertainment, Virgil. _I_ certainly didn’t.”

Virgil groaned from where he lay, a cold, damp stone pressing into his cheek. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Deceit smirking down at him. He closed his eyes.

“Do you think they got my message?” He heard some movement, sensed a rustling close to him, but before he could open his eyes, a fingertip lightly touched his nose. Virgil reared back instinctively, warmth running down his left sleeve at the movement.

Deceit tsked. “For shame, Virgil. Haven’t you learned to _stay still_?” The hand that had just been so gentle on his nose gripped his hair and yanked him up. Virgil cried out; his eyes flipped open. Blood rolled onto his fingertips and dripped onto the ground. He tried to not think about that, tried to stay in the now, but he felt so bleary… .

Deceit bent over until he was at eye-level with the Side. Virgil unwillingly raised his eyes. The smile was gone from the Deceit’s lips, a grim line it its place.

“A part of me hates that you agreed to this,” the snake-faced side confessed in a whisper. “Hates that this is like closure for you. You deserve to suffer endlessly.”

Virgil nodded the best he could without pulling his hair. He knew that already. The blood trickling down his arm and palm was uncomfortably warm, and its place of origin burned, but he forced himself to stay focused, his eyes fixed on Deceit’s.

“But this is closure for me, too,” continued Deceit. “I needed to hurt you. Personally. And if an agreement must needs be made for me to do so, then so be it.” He smiled again, malicious and animalistic.

Without warning, he threw the anxious Side to the ground with what felt like all the force he could muster. Virgil flung his arms out too late, panicking, cracking his temple on the stone floor, his teeth rattling, his cheek scraping on a rough edge. He’d bit his tongue on the way down, spat out some blood as his head started pounding. He heard a laugh distantly.

“Moments like that make the agreement worth it.”

Virgil stayed frozen, letting the copper taste leak out through the corner of his mouth, until the door shut. He was shaking, wanting to cry. Instead, he sat up as quickly as his head would allow (which wasn’t very quick at all) and took stock of his injuries. Concussion, likely. He touched his cheek and grimaced when his hand came away sticky. By some miracle, he’d avoided breaking his nose, which he was almost certain was what the snake-faced Side had been trying to do. He smiled; it was a grim bit of satisfaction.

And, of course, his arm.

He tugged up his sleeve, cringing at how much blood there was. He still wasn’t sure that he wanted to see it, but some things had to be done. He didn’t even know what it was. Perhaps Deceit had just … no. Of course not. There, carved into his left forearm, in the same neat lettering that now disfigured Roman’s chest, was the truth. _Worthless._

For being known as Deceit, he was pretty on the nose, Virgil thought wryly. He let his arms fall and slowly lowered himself into a more relaxed position, stretched out on his back. His stomach rolled as he shifted, whether from moving or seeing his arm, he didn’t know.

Some might think it odd, how accepting of it all he was. Resigned. He thought it odd, most days. But he’d made an agreement, signed a contract.

Deceit didn’t seem like he would be satisfied any time soon. It hurt, really _hurt_, to do this to Thomas and the others, but it was too late now.

A deal with the devil had been made.

As to who was the devil, he didn’t know.

-

Roman hadn’t woken up again, not since his panicked rambling. Patton hadn’t left his side. Logan had things to do—Thomas hadn’t fallen back asleep after Roman’s nightmare woke him—but he’d promised to check in every half hour. Upon the most recent check-in, Patton had been dozing in the cushy chair beside the bed. Logan had closed the door softly. They all needed rest, he’d thought.

Now, he pushed shut his laptop and rubbed his eyes tiredly. _I need rest,_ he admitted to himself. _Or at least a break._

He rolled back his chair. Water sounded good. Stumbling a little over his sleeping feet, he made his way to the kitchen, took a glass from the cupboard, filled it. He waited until he was done drinking to acknowledge the other Side.

“Hello, Deceit.”

The snake-faced Side sat at the kitchen table. He looked up from his crossword puzzle in mock surprise. “Logan! What are you doing here?”

Logan ignored the question. “How is the puzzle?”

“Hm,” Deceit tapped his chin with the stubby yellow pencil in his hand. “Know a six-letter word for abusive?”

“Too easy. Give me a harder one.”

“Eleven-letter word meaning revenge?”

“Retribution.”

Deceit laughed delightedly. “You and I, Logan, are on the same page!”

“We may very well be,” Logan frowned. “But I’m certain we’re reading a different book.”

The smile slipped, showing an expression of disgust on Deceit’s face. “Careful, Logan,” he said, his voice a low warning. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.” He stood, obviously intent on leaving. “By the way, Virgil?” he threw over his shoulder. “He signed a contract. He agreed to the terms. You wouldn’t want to know what could happen if those terms were violated.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - Another One of Those Days https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMj88DEo6Do
> 
> Tw: Remus being gross, nothing graphic though, blood, Deceit, angst, Virgil is hurting, broken bones, bruises, mentions of injuries

“What are you doing with Virgil?”

Deceit froze. He slowly turned. Remus was behind him, a toothy grin spread across his face.

“Good to see you too, Remus,” Deceit said, yanking his gloves up.

“Why is he in my old room?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Dee.”

Deceit turned away from the familiar nickname, then spun right back around at an unexpected _thunk!_

“Mm. I missed.”

A knife stuck straight up, quivering in the floor. “What were you aiming for?”

“You.”

Deceit rolled his eyes.

“Why won’t you tell me anything?” Remus genuinely looked hurt. “You used to tell me everything.”

Deceit shoved down the guilt. He was doing this for Remus, he told himself. Even if he couldn’t tell him that. “Be grateful for what you don’t know,” he said quietly.

“You, of all people, Dee, should know that I want to know everything, especially what everyone says I don’t want to know!”

“Remus,” Deceit said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m doing this for you. And you don’t remember why. I want to keep it that way.”

Remus produced a dart from his sleeve and stuck it into his own forehead. “I remember everything,” he said cheerfully. Deceit laughed uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the blood trickling down Remus’s forehead.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You don’t, and I hope you never do.”

The strangest thing about Remus, Deceit thought as he walked away, was how happy he always appeared. He was rarely seen bereft a smile, rarely heard without a note of glee in his voice. None of it was false, he knew. Just … mad. Deranged.

Remus was deranged, and he’d never know why. It was poetic, in a way. Sad, but Deceit would never tell what he knew. He thanked his lucky stars everyday for that lapse in the Side’s memory. Deceit didn’t want him to remember what drove him insane.

Without fail, thinking about him made his blood boil. He hadn’t planned on paying Virgil another visit so soon, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, it was never good to keep anger all bottled up.

-

“Virgil!”

Virgil looked up at the pulsing green light. “Remus,” he greeted, not even trying to get up from where he was slumped against the wall.

Remus crossed the room in a few flounces and sat next to him. Virgil did his best to not seem uncomfortable, but couldn’t help inching away. Even after confronting him with Thomas, Remus put him on-edge.

“I heard Dee muttering about breaking your fingers. Did he?”

“Great conversation starter.”

“I know! So did he?”

Virgil sighed. He was trying to not let it get to him, but at the mention the pain bumped up from a low throb to a burn. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “Yes. He did.”

“Can I see?”

Virgil reluctantly displayed his hands. All but two of his fingers were swollen and turning purple and red. He blanched (he’d kept his hands burrowed in his sleeves, unable to bear the sight), but Remus’s eyes danced with childlike glee.

“Ooh! I’ve always wanted to know what that looked like!”

“Great, now you can torment Thomas even more.”

“You know me!”

Virgil looked away. He really didn’t know Remus. He’d never tried to.

“So,” Remus said, rolling onto his back. He bumped Virgil, who bit his tongue to hold back a hiss. He could almost feel his eye shadow darkening. “Why are you in my old room?”

He shivered. It was jarring to hear Remus refer to it that way. “Don’t call it that.”

“Why not? That’s what it is.”

“No, it’s not.” Virgil forced down the irrational anger that sprang up with those words. That was a road he didn’t want to go down, he realized. “It’s a prison.”

“Hm. Maybe to you.” the Side leaned his head back, those—to use his own word—demented eyes meeting his. “I chose to not see it that way.”

An interesting thought, but also disturbing if you considered it too long.

“Just go away.” Virgil was getting distressingly hot—Remus was practically a space heater—and turned away to signal the end of the conversation, but the Duke didn’t move to leave—in fact, he spread out more on the ground. With no other choice (except sweat until he was soaked), Virgil sat up a bit and reluctantly shook his jacket off, trying to not move or use his hands.

“What’s that?”

Too late, Virgil tried to cover the puffy letters on his arm.

“Virge, you don’t think you’re worthless, do you?”

It sounded so much like Patton that, despite himself, Virgil had to look up. A sickening gaze of concern met his eyes. He recoiled mentally; why would Remus care about him?

“I mean, _I _don’t like you,” Remus continued, “and I think you’re unnecessary, but that doesn’t mean you’re worthless.”

“Worthless and unnecessary are synonymous.”

“No, they aren’t. Not to me.” Remus sprang up and moon-walked to the door. “Deceit says I don’t remember things,” he added as an afterthought. “But I do. I remember everything. I remember everything, Virgie.” He phased through the door, his light hanging around for a few seconds before catching up.  
With the heat suddenly gone, Virgil found himself freezing, suddenly covered in goosebumps. Or maybe it wasn’t the heat that brought them. Maybe it was the parting words. Whatever it was, Virgil forgot about his broken fingers, chilled to the very soul.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Beatles - Happiness Is A Warm Gun https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdvnOH060Qg
> 
> Tw: Description of injuries/torture (but like compared to past chapters it’s not too bad), Virgil’s not doing great, neither is Deceit though let’s be real

“I hope you’ve reconsidered.”

Virgil coughed weakly. “Reconsidered what?”

Deceit tsked, one hand on the doorknob. “Then I suppose,” he said quietly, “I have no further reason for being here.”

“No—wait—” Virgil struggled to sit up. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, just knew he couldn’t be left alone right now. He knew the dangers of solitary confinement—he’d made Thomas buy at least four books on the subject—and perhaps that was what scared him. He slept most of the time when he was alone, and sleep was getting easier with every day he was here, but he was afraid. He was afraid in a weird way that he would … stop existing, if all he did was sleep and worry. Some days he woke up thinking that it had already happened, that Thomas was finally free of him, that he was stuck in some awful purgatory. Talking with Deceit let him know he was still there, helped soothe those fears—though riled up others.

Deceit let his hand drop. “And why should I stay?”

Virgil had no answer, instead trying to stand without using his hands to steady himself. They’d begum to heal—hopefully in the correct way—but still hurt like Hades. Deceit’s expression softened a little.

“Let me help you.” He stepped away from the door and pulled the anxious Side up by his upper arms. Virgil flinched at his touch, tried to cover the movement by burrowing deeper into his jacket. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to stand, he thought as he swayed. It hurt. At some point—he didn’t remember when—his feet had suffered light burns. They were healing better than his hands, which were so swollen they were almost unrecognizable as his own, but were still a long way from being okay.

“Let me see your hands,” Deceit ordered. That was honestly what he’d been expecting. This was it. This was the price of company. He would probably never be able to use his hands again. He suppressed a sob and reluctantly pulled them from his hoodie pockets. His breathing came quicker as the Side took his left in both hands. One gloved finger lightly traced Virgil’s index finger in an explosion of pain. He cried out and pulled away, his entire hand throbbing.

Deceit let put an irritated grunt. “”I’m trying to help,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t move.”

Virgil bared his hands again. He bit the inside of his cheeks as Deceit continued, pressing each finger, and tried to not make any sounds. Sound was weakness. At least Deceit didn’t look like Logan at the moment, a game he’d played in the past. Virgil shuddered to remember it.

Deceit frowned as he examined both hands, turning them over, wiggling them a bit to gauge the range of motion.

“I did this?” he heard Deceit mutter, as if to himself.

“You seemed pretty mad,” Virgil offered. He cringed, expecting retaliation for the out-of-line comment. None came, though.

“Hm.” His frown deepened. “I don’t think I can fix this.” His gaze met Virgil’s. “Unless, of course, you’d like to reconsider my offer.”

“Blackmail,” Virgil spat. What wasn’t in the contract wasn’t in the contract, he added silently.

“Not blackmail, no,” Deceit said silkily, letting Virgil’s hands drop. “An offer. Yours to accept or refuse.”

“Yeah, well, I refuse,” Virgil said. He knew he shouldn’t be shutting down the conversation, knew he should at least pretend to be considering. He really didn’t want to be alone.

“You’d rather be in this pain? Go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I won’t.” His feet were really protesting to his standing position now, so he began to inch toward the ground. Just as he got to his knees, though, a hand grasped his hair. He froze. Instead of throwing him aside, as he expected, Deceit tilted his head up until their eyes met. The mismatched eyes glinted with … empathy? Or pity? Odd. The hand let go of his hair and trailed down, crawling down the side of his face. Virgil tried to hide his discomfort.

“Some days, I’m done,” Deceit confessed quietly. “I’m ready to let go. To let you go. But other days… .”

The hand on his face stiffened. Virgil followed Deceit’s gaze as it flicked down, landing on his hands; the snake-faced Side’s eyes hardened.

“Other days,” he continued, his voice dripping with a tone that reminded Virgil uneasily of blood trickling down his palm. “I talk to Remus.”

Virgil looked up again. Any sign of what could have been empathy or pity was gone, replaced with cold malice. He took a deep breath, then held up his aching hands.

“I deserve this,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He didn’t look at his bloated fingers, they only made him feel ill deep down in his stomach. Instead, he carefully watched Deceit’s face. A small, cruel smile twisted his lips.

“Don’t let me forget it,” Deceit replied, voice just as low. Then he was gone.

Virgil sort of felt disappointed. He knew he should be grateful he hadn’t suffered any injuries this time around. He almost wanted it, though. Pain to keep his thoughts occupied, to—if it was possible—put him on the road to redemption.

He needed redemption. Desperately.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: AJR - Pretender (Acoustic) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDDdEFfuMbU
> 
> Tw: Descriptions of recovering injuries, nothing graphic, Johnny Depp, self-deprecating thoughts, Roman is not in a good place right now, brief mention of blood

_Pirates Of The Caribbean 5: Dead Men Tell No Tales_ blared in the background, almost a white noise, as Roman stood, shirtless, before the mirror in his en suite bathroom.

It really was a disappointment of a film. He tended to enjoy Disney movies as a general rule, but this one sucked even in comparison to the previous four! Paul McCartney’s cameo was the only reason he even watched it; the humor was more Remus’s style. Lamenting the poorly-written script worked well as a distraction, though.

Or it would, were Roman doing that. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the reflection of the angry red letters carved into his chest. A tear welled up; he blinked, it spilled down his cheek. For some reason, he felt ashamed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

Perhaps it was because everyone had seen his injuries, something he was normally rather good at hiding. Or perhaps it was the way the injury was inflicted, directly after comforting softness and relaxing touches. He’d never really been much of a touchy guy. Sure, he accepted and initiated hugs and high-fives, but anything more or prolonged became an unpleasantness. Now, he was afraid he wouldn’t be willing to even hug again, the contact a constant reminder of the scars on his chest and the too-dark cell.

He shook himself. “No use wallowing in it,” he said quietly, but made no move to re-wrap his torso. He smiled forcefully at his reflection. It wasn’t all bad, he thought, looking down at the scars. Maybe he could treat it as a cool tattoo! He looked up again, saw how hollow the smile looked, and let it drop. That was better. His lips drooped with solemnity, eyes devoid of their normal glitter. There was nothing good to be found in the scars. Just another imperfection to hate. Just another reminder of why he wasn’t good enough.

“Chin up, Roman,” he said to his mirror self. “Let’s hurry this up and laugh at Johnny Depp!”

He grabbed a fresh roll of gauze. Logan normally did this part, but for some reason, he wanted to surprise the logical Side. Watch him enter the room and look shocked when Roman told him, a smug note in his voice, _oh, my bandages? I already changed them._ It would be one more step toward getting rid of the dependency. One more step to feeling like himself (also, while he’d never say it aloud, he _really_ didn’t want to be touched, and every time Logan changed his bandages, he felt that much closer to a panic attack).

He gritted his teeth as he wrapped the gauze around his torso as tight as he could bear it. He was somewhat dismayed at the dots of red already bleeding through the bandage (just more weakness), but it had to be tight enough that breathing wouldn’t allow his healing rib to shift.

“Roman? Are you in there?”

Crap, there was the nerd now. “Where else would I be, Teach?” He wrapped faster. He had to be back in bed before Logan came in.

Silence. The movie was at one of the more heartfelt bits, where the music cut out and the characters spoke in low tones. Finally, Logan called again. “Is Patton in there?”

“Uh, no!” He pulled the loose _Little Mermaid_ t-shirt over his head and thrust his arms through the sleeves. The bandages were sloppy and probably not tight enough, but he’d done it himself. He moved as quickly as he dared to the bed and rolled into it, then turned his eyes on Orlando Bloom’s beautiful face.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, come right on in, Lo!”

The door opened; Roman repressed a shudder when the bespectacled face brought back flashes of a too-real dream. The Side seemed concerned, but a vexed look overtook it as a loud _bang!_ sounded from onscreen.

“So where’s Pat?” Roman asked, trying to banish the flush of exertion from his face. Logan’s brow furrowed.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “He seemed rather like he was about to—” he whipped out a flashcard— “'Give the pigs’.”

Roman stared at the card, confused. “I was about to assume that’s one of mine, but that’s … yeah, that’s not a thing.”

Logan frowned. “Really?” he said, glancing at it. “It was in the thesau—never mind. He seemed upset. He said he was planning to check up on you.”

“Never turned up,” Roman affirmed. He was pretty sure he’d have noticed had Patton entered his room. “Perhaps he decided against it, and went to his own room instead.”

Logan shifted his stiff stance. Only then did Roman realize he was holding his hands behind his back. “I thought the same,” the logical Side admitted. “However, I then discovered these on the floor of the hall.”

He brought his hands into view, revealing a pair of glasses. Patton’s glasses. Unfolded, as if they’d been knocked from the moral Side’s face.

And, staring at those glasses, Roman felt truly afraid.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting caught up to tumblr! Because of that, updates will likely be a bit slower--think once a week, instead of three to five times a week.
> 
> Recommended listening: IDKHow - Do It All The Time https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lpyz1j16J0E
> 
> Tw: Villain Deceit, Oh my heck I think that’s the only warning, Logan overthinks things a bit

“Not in here.”

“Roman, if—”

“If you’re to summon that snake, it will not be in my bedroom. It’s impolite, and rather forward.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Roman didn’t look like he should be getting out of bed anytime soon—which was, in actuality, why he wanted to speak with Deceit there. No one liked to face Deceit alone. However, he noticed Roman’s face lighten a shade, saw his eyes dart down to the bed, noticed how he unconsciously rubbed his bandages through the shirt. The Side deserved a break.

So, he went to the living room. Cold, dark. The dancing fire that had made the room so bright merry only days ago seemed like a distant memory.

“Deceit, where is he?”

The snake-faced Side shot up from nowhere and winced. “Deja vu, anyone?” he asked dryly, his hat askew. He took an unsteady step backward and collapsed onto the couch. “Hate that rising-up thing. Although—” he glanced around— “just you again, Logan?”

Logan resisted the urge to lash back with a cold response. Deceit knew exactly where everyone else was. He’d taken Virgil and Patton, and Roman was practically bedridden by his hand.

“Where is he?” he repeated slowly, as if speaking to a small and dull-witted child.

“I thought you knew.”

Knew? How was he meant to know? Had a clue been left? Or was he missing something else? He mentally reviewed everything Deceit had said in the past few weeks. For a moment, his mind flashed to the time they first confronted him about Virgil. What had he said?_ “Wherever he is, I don’t believe he wants to be found.” _Could that refer to Patton as well? Or Virgil alone?

“I just wanted you to take me there,” he said. It wasn’t a lie—well, maybe a lie of omission, he conceded. However, instead of calling him on it, Deceit just looked confused.

“Why?” he asked, still slumped on the couch. “Not that I care, of course, but you know what happens. Your attempts are pointless.”

“So the rules are the same,” Logan mused.

“Why would they change?”

“Are they at the same place?”

Deceit blinked. “I definitely know what we’re talking about,” he said suavely. “Of course they _aren’t_ in the same place. Why _wouldn’t_ I move them?”

“Is he okay?” Logan tried. Deceit’s backward-speak was hard for anyone to decipher, himself included.

Deceit snorted. “Definitely,” he said easily. “But you knew that.” He stood, swayed for a moment, then stretched. “Wow, that thing where your vision blacks out _didn’t_ just happen. If that’s all, I think I’ll be going.”

“Wait.” Logan fumbled in his pants pocket until his fingers wrapped around the frames. He pulled them out and extended them to Deceit. “Give him these.”

Deceit froze midway through sinking out. Something similar to surprise flitted across his face. He didn’t take the proffered glasses. “What?”

Logan rolled his eyes, but inside he was beginning to experience an unhealthy amount of concern. He needed Patton to get the glasses—he’d scratched a message on them. Something reassuring. A plan to get him out.

“Give Patton these,” he repeated. “He needs them to see.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Deceit tried to cover his stutter with a silky tone, but his expression was still marred by confusion. For a brief moment, Logan entertained the nagging notion that perhaps Deceit hadn’t taken Patton. He pushed it away, filing it under ‘r’ for 'ridiculous’.

Deceit disappeared, his gloved hands idly tossing the glasses back and forth as he sank out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And then someone said, flashback scene. And it was done. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvJjmWTg7Qo
> 
> Recommended listening: IDKHow - Choke
> 
> Tw: abduction, brief mention of blood, head injury, hands get tied, Remus

Patton was on edge these days. He tried to keep Virgil off his mind. It wasn’t too hard, with how often Roman called for Patton. In moments of downtime, though, he inevitably found himself fretting about Virgil’s unknown state. It was one of those times now. Roman had just settled in with a _Pirates Of The Caribbean_ movie and a bowl of soup, leaving Patton in the living room with Logan.

Logan sipped a steaming cup of tea while calmly reading a book on music theory, but no matter how hard Patton tried, he couldn’t mimic his relaxed airs. He’d ended up flat on his stomach before the dark fireplace, a book open on the floor in front of his unseeing eyes. It was one of his favorites, but the words blurred as the pit of worry in his stomach deepened.

“I can’t stop thinking about Virgil!” he burst out. Logan raised an eyebrow, then idly turned a page.

“I’m sure Virgil knows what he’s doing.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” It was a very serious concern for Patton. All he wanted was to protect. Logan didn’t seem to take it very seriously, though, replying in a monotone.

“Believe me, he does.”

Patton stood up suddenly. He didn’t want to be placated, he wanted sympathy. Someone to share his fears. Logan probably wasn’t the best choice, but Roman was too drained to talk for very long, and his normal choice was the subject of concern.

Logan reluctantly closed his book and looked up at him. “Patton, what do you need?” he asked tiredly.

“I need someone to care!” Patton insisted, his spark of anger fanning into a flame. “One of my best friends is missing, and I’m the only one who cares!”

“Patton, I—”

“Never mind.” Patton cut him off. “I’m gonna go check on Ro.” He stormed off toward the staircase, angry tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Checking on Roman was only a stop on the way to his own room. He needed to yell, or cry, or both—anything to get these ugly feelings out. He hadn’t even made it to Roman’s room, though, when the sweater around his shoulders caught on something—a nail, maybe?

It was a nail—although, a fingernail. He turned around, Remus’s bright eyes meeting his, the Side’s hand curled up in his sweater. The sight of him almost made Patton jump, his anger gone, fear flooding his chest. Before he could say anything, the other hand slapped over his mouth.

“If Dee gets one, I do too,” he whispered. Patton didn’t quite know his meaning, but he sure as heck didn’t want to find out. He struggled, throwing himself first to one side, then the other, but Remus wrapped strong arms around him, holding him tight. His mouth was shoved into a shoulder, fingers tickling the back of his neck, his arms pinned to his sides as he writhed.

“Calm down, Patty-Cake,” Remus breathed in his ear, his breath hot. Patton recoiled. He was full-on panicking now, trying call out, his breathing coming quicker and shallower, the nerves up his spine tingling uncomfortably as he realized he couldn’t move his arms, his glasses askew and grinding into the bridge of his nose—

“Sh. Don’t want to be caught, now do we?” Only as Remus shushed him did Patton realize he was emitting an alarmed keening noise in the back of his throat. Instead of quieting, though, he forced it to grow in intensity and volume, praying that Logan would hear the scuffle and investigate. A flash of pain cut him off as he received a kick to the shin.

Then, his distress grew as he realized Remus was pulling him down, intending to sink out. He cringed inwardly, then bit down hard on the arm over his mouth. Remus hissed and his arm withdrew momentarily—just long enough, Patton thought wildly.

But it wasn’t. Before he could even draw breath, Remus grappled both arms around his head and dragged him down. A strangled whimper was the only sound he managed. There was no chance anyone heard that.

An arm over his eyes knocked his glasses to the floor.

-

“Help!”

Patton pushed Remus to the ground and briefly took in their surroundings. The Imagination, near a forest, on a dirt road. He wondered why they were there, where they were going. It didn’t matter, he decided, and started to run in the direction he thought the door out lay.

“No!”

A rock flew past him. He doubled his speed, he had to get out, he couldn’t stick around to see what Remus wanted—

The second rock hit Patton with full force. He’d briefly turned his head to make sure Remus wasn’t running after him, then his vision flashed red as something jagged made impact with his face.

Patton blinked, opened his eyes to see a cloudless sky. His head ached, he felt sort of sick, his hand came away sticky when he brought it to his cheek. Then the sky was blocked out as a malicious face filled his field of view.

“That was sneaky, Pops,” Remus spat. “Let’s not try that again. We’re going where _I _want to go.”

Muddled as he was, and eyesight blurred without his glasses, Patton barely noticed the smile was gone from the Side’s face. Never a good thing when concerning Remus.

Remus rolled him over onto his back. Patton felt his arms scrape on something—a rope. It pulled tighter, wrapping around his wrists and burning his skin.

With nothing to stop him this time, Patton screamed as loud as he could when Remus pulled him into black nothingness.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Faouzia - Bad Dreams https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rZymGaHrx4
> 
> Tw: Brief mention of blood, detailed panic attack

“Remus! Remus?”

On a normal day, Deceit rather enjoyed the Imagination. It was calming, certain parts of it susceptible to his sculpting. In the past, he’d spent hours at a time, cultivating his pet project—a flower garden. Drooping daffodils, wilting irises, withered tulips. He’d tried everything—more shade, less shade, fertilizer, regulated water. Nothing he did kept the flowers alive, but he never abandoned it.

Now, however, he walked briskly past it. He wasn’t here for a relaxing session of digging up the weeds that seemed to pop out of nowhere. He was on a mission.

“Remus!” he called. Nothing. Birds twittered, cicadas buzzed, the quiet rumble of a dragon sounded nearby—an almost sure sign that Roman was somewhere near. Deceit chose not to track Roman down to ask him about the whereabouts of his brother.

The choice was rejected by some deity, though, as a figure in white burst from the forest Deceit was about to venture into. Roman appeared to be running for his life, but stopped short when he saw Deceit. His still-bruised face paled a shade,, and he looked like he was about to turn around, when he seized with pain and fell to his knees.

Deceit _really_ didn’t want to help—was loathe to even approach—but continued forward on the dirt path until he stood by the prince’s side, and looked down at him.

One hand was on the ground, the other clutched to his side as little gasps hissed through clenched teeth. His hair was plastered to his forehead, drops of sweat rolling down his cheeks. Deceit wasn’t sure how to help. He was certain that anything he could offer, Roman wouldn’t want. Eventually, he settled for something neutral.

“Have you seen Remus?”

Roman fell further, flat out on the ground, then rolled onto his back. He seemed to have not heard, not even acknowledging the question, instead undoing the clasp at the top of his uniform, then yanking it over his head. Crisp white bandages were wrapped around his torso, bright red pinpricks blooming in places on his chest.

“Mother _Gothel_,” Roman gasped. “Logan will _kill_ me.”

Deceit sighed. Already knowing the response, he asked, “Can I be of any help?”

“No—no, no,” Roman said, a little too quickly. “I just—I’m fine.”

That was a lie, Deceit noted wryly. Roman looked like he was about to pass out. The gaunt shadows under his eyes told tales of sleepless nights, stark against his pasty face. His eyes were bone-weary and fearful, peeking out from under heavy eyelids. He seemed barely able to stand, let alone get himself home.

Despite the answer in the negative, Deceit crouched down, unsure as to what to do, but hoping a hand on Roman’s shoulder would help ground him. However, the opposite appeared to be true.

Almost as soon as he touched him, Roman went from slowly gaining his breath to utterly hysterical. His breathing came faster, cries sounding like they came from a wounded animal tore from his throat. He writhed for a moment, then as Deceit removed his hand, Roman’s muscles all locked and he began to shake uncontrollably.

“Roman?”

A sob wracked the prince’s body. Deceit could see how tight Roman’s jaw was clenched, skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. His eyes were blank, clouded over, staring into nothing. Deceit didn’t know what to do. His mind raced as he tried to understand what was happening.

“Roman, can you hear me?”

“Y-yes,” came the whispered reply. “I—gosh, I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die—”

“Roman?”

“M—my sword,” Roman managed, his teeth clacking against each other. Deceit spotted the hilt, the blade hidden by the sheath at Roman’s hip. He knelt beside him, took his wrist to guide it to the sword. Roman choked at the touch, but Deceit moved quickly, leaving Roman’s hand wrapped around the hilt.

_He peeked around the corner, hearing something from the other side. Curled up against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, was Anxiety, in all his dark glory. Tears dripped from unseeing eyes, ragged gasps came from his chest._

_“Are you okay?” he asked timidly._

_No response. Anxiety didn’t even seem to hear him. Slowly, Deceit backed away, resolving to never mention it again._

Deceit blinked the memory away. He’d realized, not long after that incident, that Virgil had been suffering from a panic attack. He could now draw the parallels between that moment and this one. Roman, while displaying some different symptoms, was clearly in the same boat.

He really had no clue as to how to calm down Roman, especially since his touch appeared to have set off the attack. Roman had earlier seemed to not want Logan to be aware of his plight, the only Side who would actually know what to do in this situation. With no other option, he decided to wait it out.

Of course, he could continue looking for Remus—in fact, he should, who knew what condition Patton was in—but was loathe to leave Roman’s side. He had nothing against the prince. It wouldn’t do to be hated even more, so an act of kindness was in line.

Eventually, Roman sounded like he was gaining control of his breathing. Deceit looked over from where he’d been drawing in the dirt (a prim house, smoke curling from the chimney) and saw that Roman’s eyes were more clear, though his knuckles were still white around the hilt of his sword.

“So,” spoke Deceit, trying to act as if nothing had happened. “How was the dragon?”

“M-manticore, actually.”

Deceit nodded sagely. “Of course. How silly of me.”

Roman struggled to sit up. The pinpricks of red on his torso expanded.

“Maybe you shouldn’t do that.”

The prince froze; his eyes flashed with fear. “Don't—!”

“Don’t what?” His mind filled in the blank, though. _Don’t hurt me._ Something deep down stirred. The words were achingly familiar. Deceit fidgeted. He didn’t have time to deal with Roman’s feelings. He needed to get to Patton before Remus did who knows what to him.

“Roman.”

Roman flinched, then met his eyes.

“I’ll leave, just say the word. But know this.” Deceit stood, dusted his gloved hands off. “This isn’t about you. It is a matter between Virgil and myself.”

Roman looked away. Deceit almost left—he was practically bouncing, needing to find Remus—when Roman whispered words weighted with despair.

“Then why did you break me?”

It almost physically hurt, twisting a knife in his heart and waking an old instinct, making him want to tell Roman over and over that they would get through this together, that it would be okay. Deceit pushed the words back down his throat.

“You got in the way.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Broken Bells - Good Luck https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lkv2zF2Bgq0
> 
> Tw: Blood, kidnapping, tied hands, threats, Remus, Deceit

Patton had been alone for a while now. Every so often for several hours, Remus had appeared in the dark, closet-like room. Whenever he was there, he paced the length of the room, muttering to himself. Sometimes he suddenly grabbed Patton by the shoulders, examined his averted eyes and trembling lips, then disappeared, leaving Patton too frightened to move.

Physically, Patton was fine—his forearms were a bit bruised up, and the head wound pounded relentlessly, but that was it.

He didn’t dare move too much. The insane Side had warned him against it, a rather unpleasant knife clenched between his teeth. Patton shuddered to think of what might happen should Remus return to find him not in the center of the room, where he’d been frozen with fear since they’d arrived. He needed to move though, his legs beginning to ache, so he slowly rotated on the spot.

The room was rather bare. Concrete floor, plain walls. It was dark, too—no light bulb or window. A smashed mirror hung on one of the walls, dusty shards of glass littered about the floor beneath it. The only furniture was a twin-size bed, shoved as far into the corner as was possible. Peeking out from under the bed was a small chest, appearing exactly as one would imagine a pirate’s treasure chest would look.

Patton didn’t like to look at the treasure chest. He didn’t like to look at anything in the room, actually. Moving pulled on his ears strangely ever since Remus had jabbed his fingers into Patton’s ear canals. It hadn’t really hurt, but his ears felt all slimy and gross and it almost sounded like something—or someone—was whispering into them? Patton shook the thought away. He had to think about something pleasant.

The room was like a box—no, a present, Patton decided. Someone would open it and he would pop out, all smiles and fatherly energy. _“Guess you didn’t expect to see ol’ Patton here, did ya?”_ He’d say.

Patton sniffed back a tear.

-

“Guess who I have!”

Virgil sighed. “Who do you have?” He was trying to sleep. Why did Remus have to bother him now?

“Guess!”

“Patton,” Virgil threw out. Remus was going to make him guess three times, wasn’t he?

Remus’s face dropped momentarily. “Who told you?” he demanded.

Virgil sat straight up. “What?” he gasped. He couldn’t really have Patton. He had to be lying. He had to! A small voice in the back of his head reminded him that Remus _never_ lied, he was as honest as could be. “What—don’t touch him!”

Remus cackled. “I think I’ll break his fingers next!” he confessed gleefully.

Next? _Next?_ “No! Remus, no!”

“Remus yes!” The Side turned away and bounced to the door.

“No! Please, I’ll do—”

“You’ll do what?”

Virgil’s mouth opened and closed. Remus had frozen, his back still turned. Virgil really didn’t want to say what had popped into his head, but … Patton. He couldn’t let him go through that pain. He spoke, his voice echoing deeply.

“I’ll … tell you why I’m here.” It would be a breach of contract, but maybe Remus wouldn’t tell Deceit? Who was he kidding, Remus would tell everyone. Too late, he desperately regretted his words.

Remus’s head swiveled around on his neck, owl-like, those glinting eyes meeting Virgil’s. “Tempting, Virgie.” Then he was right in front of the anxious Side, their noses almost touching. Virgil recoiled.

“But what would Dee think of that?” Remus hissed. Then he was gone.

-

“Patton?”

The moral Side looked up, and Deceit took in his tear-filled eyes, his dirty clothes, the dried blood that was stark against his pale cheek.

“Heya, kiddo,” Patton said, a false smile plastered onto his face. “Long time, no see!”

Deceit ignored the words, stepping further into the cramped space that had once been his own bedroom. Patton was standing, shaking, in the center of the room, his hands tied behind his back with what seemed to be a scratchy length of rope.

“Are you all right?”

Patton chuckled. It was a thin, strained sound. “Most certainly not.”

Deceit groaned in frustration. Most days, Remus was fine. Too curious, of course. Gross. But this was just out of hand. Had something distressed him, or did he just genuinely dislike Patton?

“Can I go home now?” Patton asked pitifully, haltingly, like he thought he might be punished for speaking. Deceit almost sunk out with him right then and there. He might dislike the moral Side, but he knew that Thomas cared very much about Patton, who in his turn was just trying to do what he thought was best for Thomas. Yes, part of Deceit said Patton needed to get home right now, but another part. . . .

Another part of him understood how much Virgil cared about Patton.

“Of course,” he said silkily. “I can sink you out.”

And, with his hands bound, stupid, trusting Patton ran straight into Deceit’s arms.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Ben Platt - In Case You Don’t Live Forever https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlkA0mOzzO4
> 
> Tw: Virgil freaks out, blood, mention of past injuries, villain!Deceit

Virgil hadn’t sat down since hearing Remus’s parting words. He paced and paced, his aching body complaining relentlessly. He embraced the pain. It cleared his head. If there was one thing Virgil hated, it was not being able to focus.

He circled the room like a caged lion, alternating between running his hands through his hair and shoving them in his pockets, his fingers burning from the acts. If Remus really had Patton, what would he do to him? What had he already done to him?

“Virgil.”

Virgil ignored the voice. He deliberately turned away from the door and continued to pace. He’d pay for it later, but he couldn’t deal with Deceit right now. Not when his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest and he was barely holding back tears and his breathing was increasingly labored and he couldn’t calm down—

“Virgil.”

Now his hands shook as he walked; Deceit was here, Deceit was not going to spare any kindness, Deceit was going to punish him for everything—

“Virgil. Look at me.”

He finally looked and saw not just Deceit, but … Patton. Patton who was bound, and covered in dirt, and didn’t have glasses on, and blood, so much blood too much blood all over his face. Virgil’s chest tightened; he swallowed the dryness in his throat as he finally, finally dropped to his knees.

“Virge! Are you okay?” Patton’s voice was like music to his ears. It was clear, and thin, and scared, but _all right._

He looked closer, saw past the red to the shallow gash on Patton’s cheek, saw past the dirt to the concerned—and generally unharmed—eyes. “I’m fine,” Virgil managed, trying to regulate his breathing. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine.”

“Wonderful little catch-up,” said Deceit, looking bored. “Now, Virgil, I found dear Patton on our side of the mindscape.”

“Don't—”

“And I believe,” Deceit continued, as if Virgil hadn’t said anything, “that means we have a guest, doesn’t it?”

“No!” And, for the second time that day, Virgil spat out words he never thought he’d say, deals he hated to agree to. “Please. I'll—I’ll do it, okay!? Just let him go home!”

Patton drew breath to speak, the recoiled as he was jerked back. He stumbled, tried to move his feet quick enough to stop from falling. Unsuccessful, he fell backward and cracked his head on the stone floor, then lay still. A glance at Deceit’s raised hand told Virgil all he needed to know.

A shout of fury tore itself from Virgil’s throat. Watching Patton struggle unleashed a madness in him, and he jumped up, barely thinking. All he knew was the white-hot anger had kicked in his fight-or-flight reflexes, and fight had definitely won.

He faltered, though, ready to barrel into the Side, when he saw the way Deceit flinched, saw the fear cross his face.

And he stopped. The fire was gone, flickering out and replaced with dull resignation.

“Oops,” Deceit said, his face carefully blank. “I forgot his hands were tied.”

“I’ll do it, okay,” Virgil repeated. “I’ll do it. Just let him go.”

A paper materialized before Virgil, held by nothing, a pen floating beside it. Words appeared as he stared at it. Then, at the bottom, a line waiting for his signature. With burning fingers, he took the pen. Virgil shakily, painfully, signed his name in wobbly letters. It disappeared, but the pen remained. Virgil slipped it into his pocket.

Deceit’s hand raised again; Virgil screwed his eyes shut. He hoped that, by some mercy, Patton was unconscious. This wasn’t something he wanted Patton to witness.

Nothing happened.

Virgil opened his eyes. Why wasn’t it happening? Deceit hadn’t moved. “Come on,” Virgil said anxiously. “Do it. I’m ready, do it.”

A small smile touched Deceit’s lips. “No, I don’t think so,” he said lowly. “Not now. I want you to dread it. I want it to be a surprise. I know how much you love surprises.”

It was suddenly hard to breathe. Virgil stood helplessly, glued to the spot as Deceit pulled Patton up. Patton groaned and blinked blearily. “Virgil… ?”

“Go with him, Patton,” Virgil choked. He could feel his heart splinter into thousands of pieces at the look Patton gave him, but he waved and tried to smile. “He’ll take you home. It’s gonna be okay.”

Patton didn’t smile back.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Unlikely Candidates - Novocaine https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Yenes0MSzg
> 
> Tw: Hoo boy let’s go, Deceit, blood, ropes, bound hands, food mentions, scary mist stuff, Remus can control green mist, Deceit can control yellow mist, torture by way of said mist, mild body horror, choking, flashbacks, Deceit is so tired, mentions of panic attack, angst
> 
> All caught up to tumblr!

“What did you do to him?!”

“Much as it distresses me to admit, I did nothing.”

“Offense fully intended, Deceit, but you haven’t been at all trustworthy in past experience.”

Roman leaned closer, barely restraining himself from leaving the relative safety of the middle step of the staircase. From there he could see some of the argument occurring in the kitchen, with the assurance of being able to pull out of sight quickly. He could see the side of Logan, and part of the back of Deceit’s head. He had to assume Patton was in the room as well. Deceit’s next words confirmed his thoughts.

“Not to be _logical_, but perhaps we ought to move our Patton to a place more conducive to his recovery.” The mocking lilt to Deceit’s tone caused Roman to shudder involuntarily. He tried to swallow the fear, push it down and squish it up until it vanished from existence, but it rose up stronger. He wondered briefly if this was how Virgil felt all the time. Dominated by his fear. Unable to touch people, or make sudden movements, afraid of something amorphous and indescribable.

Then he recalled that Virgil wasn’t broken. Virgil continued to do his job, and was able to push his fears aside when needed. Roman was nothing more than a failure, if even Virgil, the literal embodiment of anxiety, could do what he couldn’t.

There was some muttering he couldn’t decipher. Frustrated, Roman allowed himself one more step, then one more. The two Sides had moved out of his line of sight, but now he could hear what was going on.

“Denied. If you feel the need to assist in some manner, you are permitted to walk alongside as I escort Patton to the couch.”

What was denied? What had he missed in such a short time? Roman inched even closer, noting he was now a single step from the floor. He willed as hard as he could that Deceit wouldn’t look over.

Now Roman could see Patton. A lick of anger reared in his stomach as he took in the sight. Patton’s eyes were heavy, shadows under them dark enough to rival Virgil’s. Dark, dried blood was plastered all over his right cheek, going a little way down his neck. His wrists were scratched and bleeding, and Roman unconsciously rubbed his own wrists. The bruises had all but disappeared, but even now he felt the phantom weight of the chains that had encircled them.

Logan was supporting Patton, whispering in his ear as he walked Patton past the staircase. Roman felt a sudden surge of affection for the logical Side. His ministrations were always gentle; he’d always gone out of his way to make sure Roman was recovering properly. For a moment, he felt slightly guilty about sneaking into the Imagination earlier. If all went well, though, Logan would never find out. Roman had showered, changed his bandages, dropped off his blood-and-sweat-stained clothes at the Imagination’s dry cleaner. Logan would never know that he was gone, or about his panic attack. However, he couldn’t help but feel bad for hiding something from the person who had tolerated him and his complaints and his midnight nightmares for the entirety of his recovery hitherto.

The guilt—and his train of thought—froze as heterochromatic eyes met his. Roman stumbled back. A single brow rose on Deceit’s forehead as he watched, with apparent amusement, Roman trip over himself as he tried to sprint up the stairs backwards. The fear he’d been trying to squash exploded tenfold. An audible gasp escaped his throat, and he cried out softly as his scrambling caused his back to twinge. All he could think was that Deceit was back for him, and he was going to take him back there, and this time he wouldn’t let Roman free.

Deceit smirked up at the relative darkness, then turned his attention back to Patton and Logan.

-

Logan didn’t immediately say anything when Deceit appeared in his kitchen, supporting a very wobbly Patton. He watched passively as Deceit eased the Side into a kitchen chair, noting that he was even heavier than Roman. Then Logan pushed him aside with surprising force.

Letting Logan assure himself that Patton was fine, Deceit popped open the fridge. The Dark Sides obviously ate healthier, he observed. A pizza box lay atop a half-empty box of donuts. Cans of biscuits and crescent rolls lined the inside of the door, and was that—in the back—was that caramel dipping sauce? With apple slices in a Ziploc beside it? Deceit hadn’t tasted that in years! Not since Thomas had ordered his last McDonald’s Happy Meal, at the too-young age of fourteen. He was about to reach for it when Logan pushed the fridge shut.

“Why won’t Patton talk to me?”

That was a casual hazard of being kidnapped by Remus. He tended to shock people into silence with his nonexistent filter—or, sometimes, he silenced people forcibly. Deceit opened his mouth to respond that he really had no clue what Remus did, but what slipped out instead was, “Now Logic, perhaps he doesn’t trust you.”

Logan’s face, if possible, grew colder. “What did you do to him?!”

Deceit smirked. As long as he worded it right, this would only be a sort-of lie. “Much as it distresses me to admit, I did nothing.”

Logan stared at him for a long moment. His gaze flickered to Patton, sitting behind Deceit. The moral Side, come to think of it, had been uncommonly quiet (at least, since he’d called out to Logan when they’d arrived). That was … odd, and enough to make Deceit feel uneasy.

Deceit turned to examine Patton as well, something he hadn’t been able to do in full light so far. The Side was pale, so much more pale than even two minutes previous, his skin a very stark contrast to the dried blood on his face. His eyes were wide, but he swayed slightly, as if moments away from slumping onto the table.

“Not to be _logical_, but perhaps we ought to move dear Patton to a place more conducive to his recovery.”

Logan bristled slightly at the tone, but generally ignored it as he moved again to Patton’s side. “Deceit, if you would lend me the knife I am certain is on your person, I will be capable of liberating Patton from these ropes.”

Deceit glanced furtively at the fridge, then complied, extricating his knife from where it hid deep in the folds of his clothing. Logan accepted the proffered weapon.

Patton started as Logan touched his wrists. Deceit hadn’t exactly paid attention to Patton’s arms and was almost surprised to see the bleeding scratches. A rather large rope burn was slowly fading into sight.

“Allow me to accompany you to the couch,” Logan said lowly to Patton, slipping Deceit’s knife into his own pocket.

“I’ll help,” Deceit offered silkily, moving to Patton’s other side. If Remus had forced Patton’s silence, it wouldn’t be hard to tell once close. Before he could actually touch the Side, though, Logan interrupted.

“No.”

Deceit stopped, frustration coursing through his veins. Why couldn’t Logan know what he needed to do? He had to see Patton’s mouth, make sure there wasn’t any green mist lining his lips. “Please reconsider my request to help.”

“Considered.”

“And?”

“Denied.” Logan spoke louder now, grunting with the effort of pulling Patton to his feet. “If you feel the need to assist in some manner, you are permitted to walk alongside as I escort Patton to the couch.”

So he did. A movement in the corner of his eye caused Deceit to jerk his head to the side. Roman stood on the staircase, pajamas rumpled and hair wet, fear washing over his features.

Deceit smirked a little as the Side scrambled away. It was somewhat satisfying to see someone rendered incapable simply by his presence. Incapable—he was quickly reminded of his suspicions. He leaned forward ever so slightly as Logan set Patton on the couch, and caught a glimpse of mist—not around his mouth, but curling over and in his ears.

He couldn’t quite tell what color it was from his position. Deceit was tired, so incredibly tired, and colors were always more difficult when his head was so muddled. It was either green or … yellow. . . .

_“Dee, help!”_

_Deceit blinked back tears as the misty snakes wormed their way into Remus’s ears. His own bare hands controlled them, guiding them like puppets attached to his fingers._

_“Dee—” Remus doubled over, choking. Deceit knew why. When he straightened, Deceit could see the snakes had slithered up his throat and latched onto his tongue and lips, forcing his mouth to open. More snakes made of the mist held up his eyelids, attempting a peppy look, but they couldn’t mask the utter terror in those eyes._

_After what felt like hours of Dee staring in morbid fascination, Remus’s eyes rolled up into the back of his head; his body slumped, held standing only by the yellow wisps in his body._

Then it was the present, and Deceit had to get that mist off, the awful snakes wrapping around bones and whispering worthlessness and—

He was pinned against the wall, someone’s forearm over his chest. He looked up, met those probably-brown eyes in the probably-pale face. Logan’s other arm pressed painfully against his throat.

“Would you mind informing me,” Logan said, voice dangerous and eyes sparking, “why you thought jumping at Patton would be a good idea?”

Deceit gasped for air, but the arm didn’t stop crushing his windpipe. “The—mist,” he wheezed. “His … ears… .”

Logan’s eyes flicked toward Patton, then back to Deceit. Colored dots sparked around the edges of Deceit’s vision. Logan’s lips moved, but it took a few moments for the words to reach him.

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing!” Deceit gritted out. “That's—n-not my—doing!”

Another voice reached Deceit distantly. His vision was clouding now, unable to focus on the dull colors before him, and he couldn’t see and couldn’t understand and couldn’t _breathe_. He didn’t know what the voice was saying, but it must have been important, because the pressure on his throat and chest released. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping and coughing. Logan’s voice permeated the ringing in his ears.

“—Insist that you return to your room. Your situation is not yet stable—”

“So you think I’m crazy?!”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s certainly what it sounded like.”

“Roman, please. Go lie down.”

“Let him stay.” Deceit’s voice was hoarse from coughing, but he could breathe again and the black was clearing from his eyes. He looked up: the world was still diluted, but he could easily see the apprehension on Logan’s face and the poorly-masked fear on Roman’s. “Our prince here will find it easiest to extract his brother’s magic.”

Roman nodded shakily, then took several shaky steps to cross the living room. Patton sat on the edge of the couch, looking utterly terrified. His eyes swiveled around to meet Deceit’s occasionally, but were now fixed on Roman.

Deceit had just seen Roman not long ago (and briefly several moments before), but Roman looked completely different from how he’d appeared in the Imagination. His princely uniform was replaced with pajama pants and a Hamilton t-shirt, his bare feet left brief prints on the plushy carpet. The sweat and dirt were gone from his skin, but his lower lip still trembled ever so slightly.

“You need to—”

“I know what to do. I’ve done this before.”

Deceit couldn’t see what happened, but he could guess. Patton gasped suddenly, and Roman stepped back into his field of view, looking with disgust at the mist seeping from his fingertips.

_“Ow!”_

_“Shut up,” Deceit whispered. He yanked harder at the slippery mist in Remus’s ears. He was so, so tired—everything was practically grey, he hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks._

_It finally pulled free. Dee shook his hands, trying to keep the mist from curling around his hands._

Then he was back, and Roman was gone, and Patton appeared to be asleep. Deceit stood slowly, supporting himself on the wall behind him. It had been a while since he’d blacked out so completely. His own chest heaving reminded him of his run-in with Roman in the Imagination.

Logan was wrapping the wrists of the slumped moral Side. He stiffened when he heard Deceit approach. “What do you want?” he asked without turning around.

In all seriousness, Deceit considered just leaving. He’d had a long day—two, even, who knew how many hours he’d spent looking for Remus. He was tempted to walk back into the kitchen, take the caramel sauce, and sink out to go to bed. However, being Thomas’s self-preservation obligated this.

“Keep an eye on Roman,” he said tiredly. “I certainly didn’t see him having a panic attack in the Imagination.”

Logan deigned to face him. Disbelief was written all over his features. “Roman is restricted from the Imagination without companionship until he has recovered. There was no reason for him to be there.”

Deceit shrugged. He was sure by now that he’d searched for at least two days, maybe three, and he was too exhausted to argue. He sank out, forgoing the extra steps of obtaining the caramel dip.

It was long past time to get some sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Panic! At The Disco & Fun. - C’Mon https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRhNnEkX93M
> 
> Tw: Panic attack, self-deprecating thoughts
> 
> I've heard that this one's a tear-jerker. It was honestly a lot of fun to write. Enjoy!

The Imagination was quiet today. Calm, docile. Today all the villagers would be picnicking, or barn-raising, or simply enjoying the fresh air.

Roman had wandered into the woods, his pajamas morphing into a forester’s green and leather ensemble. He let the sickly green mist that had belonged to his brother drift away from his fingers, attaching itself to a tree, causing it to shrivel and grow gnarled. Roman didn’t notice.

He found himself by a small waterfall. He came here sometimes, after spending time in Virgil’s room, or after a particularly fruitless brainstorming session. Sometimes his thoughts were just too loud. The waterfall drowned them out.

Roman flopped onto the ground. An earthy smell filled his nostrils; the slightly damp grass tickled the back of his neck in a way that was almost okay.

If he stared up at the blue sky through the branches, and let the waterfall fill his mind, he could almost believe he was all right. He could almost convince himself that Virgil had never disappeared, that he himself had never been tortured, that his skin was smooth, devoid of any permanent marks. He could almost convince himself that he wouldn’t freak out the next time someone touched him.

The Imagination was quiet today. But all the quiet in the world couldn’t be louder than the thoughts in Roman’s head.

-

Virgil had finally gotten sleep at some point. Not much, but enough that his panic was no longer dulled, as it had become the more exhausted he’d been.

“At least Patton’s safe,” he’d found himself whispering over and over again. Now, however, doubts crept into his mind. He could’ve sworn he’d seen something green peeking out of Patton’s ears. At the time, he’d written it off as a trick the panic was playing on his vision. But … what if it really was what he thought it was?

He tried to shake it off. Patton had Logan and Roman now. He would be okay.

Somehow, this felt like the end of something. He didn’t know what, Virgil realized as he painfully, haltingly, paced the room. When he’d first arrived, the room was familiarly huge, too large a space for just him. Too empty, too silent. Too much. Now it was too full, too loud. Too little. Making one circuit of the room had once felt like a lifetime, now it felt like mere seconds. Once he had yelled just to fill the silence. Now he was quiet, just trying to appease the noise.

Walking wasn’t helping at the moment, so Virgil sat, his body grateful for the rest. He needed to find another way to calm himself. Roman had always insisted that making up stories was relaxing. Maybe he could give that a try.

“Once upon a time,” Virgil began, over the deafening quiet, “there was … a prince. The prince never really understood how to make things right. Instead of trying, he separated himself from any solution._ He was a stubborn prince… .”_

-

He could always ask for help, Roman supposed. He could explain what was wrong. Logan would have a solution. He always did.

Just the thought of explaining what happened, and how he felt, made his stomach turn. There was no way to bring that up in everyday conversation.

“Oh, by the way,” Roman said aloud, letting his eyes wander. “Just wanted to let you know that before Deceit did … it, he acted … and he… .” he groaned. That sounded stupid.

A squirrel crawled up to where he was sprawled on the ground and nudged his fingertips. Roman absentmindedly scratched its head. Thomas had to be so bored right now. His creativity was barely functional and refused to communicate with the other Sides.

_“He hoped—so hard—that his friends wouldn’t find him.”_

“Roman? Roman, are you in here?”

There Logan was now. Roman imagined him standing just inside the entrance, peering around apprehensively. Roman didn’t move to respond, though. He continued to pet the furry woodland animals—a chipmunk had joined the squirrel, then two rabbits and a deer—as they gathered around him. The deer lay curled up by his side, the rabbits on his stomach. It was almost peaceful. He didn’t want Logan to find him. He hadn’t had a proper moment to relax in far too long.

_“But they did. They found him.”_

“Ah, there you are.”

The animals shifted uneasily as Roman stiffened. A bespectacled face appeared in his field of vision.

“I told you to stay out of the Imagination until you have recovered.” Logan extended a hand to help him up. Roman pretended to not notice, instead letting his hand rest on the deer’s head and his eyelids slip closed.

_“And they didn’t understand.”_

“Roman.” Logan’s voice was annoyed now, and there was a shuffling sound, and suddenly there was a hand wrapped around Roman’s upper arm. There was a moment of nothing that lasted an eternity, the calm before the storm. Roman felt his heartbeat speed up, his eyes open wide, his muscles tense. The creatures scattered.

Then it felt like his insides were tearing him apart.

_“And he couldn’t explain.”_

“What in Newton’s name is the matter?”

His back was against something rough, and he couldn’t move, but he had to, because he wasn’t safe he wasn’t safe he wasn’t safe he—

Then Roman blinked, and forced himself to take a deep breath. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. His vision cleared; Logan stood a good five feet away, confusion warring with concern on his face. Roman realized he was curled up, back pressing a little painfully into a tree trunk. He couldn’t say anything yet, he recognized, as his mouth opened and shut several times.

Logan’s face softened almost imperceptibly. “Roman, subjects who talk with someone about their trauma often feel emotionally and physically better. Do you need to—”

“I’m fine,” Roman muttered, his voice found. “You can go.”

“Roman—”

“Go.”

Logan hesitated. “Be back within thirty minutes,” he ordered. “Patton would like to see you and Thomas needs sleep.”

Roman didn’t make any movement. A bird fluttered down and landed on his shoulder.

Logan turned and walked away from the clearing with the waterfall, posture stuff and head held high.

_“He pushed them away. He wasn’t worthy of such awesome—no, wonderful friends. They … they could never know how broken he was.”_

Roman’s shoulders dropped, his body shaking as his adrenaline from moments before vanished. More animals crept to his side, pressing themselves against him to try and offer as much comfort as they could.

A tear slipped down his cheek as Roman took in a shuddering gasp.

_“He was so tired of hurting.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to let you know that I actually heard the recommended listening song–C’Mon–before I got the idea for the chapter. I imagined it in a music video format–the camera switches to whichever character is relevant, and I tried to sort of capture that with Virgil telling the story about himself/Roman. That song inspired this whole bit. Roman is the first verse (It’s getting late, and I/cannot seem to find my way home/tonight), Virgil is the second (If I should die tonight/may I first just say I’m sorry), and they’re both in the third bit and choruses. Notable is the line that inspired Logan’s presence in this chapter (And if the sun should lift me up/would you come back?).
> 
> So yeah! Hope that made sense. Thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Beatles - Sexy Sadie https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSk5U4oHhu0
> 
> Tw: are there any warnings? there are no warnings, except everybody’s really tired

In all honesty, Thomas wasn’t feeling that great. The day prior, he hadn’t even been able to get out of bed. He hadn’t cared when Joan had called and asked why he wasn’t at the office. He hadn’t cared when he realized he hadn’t showered. He just … didn’t care. About anything.

Initially, he blamed Virgil for his apathy. Maybe the Side had been sick—Virgil had seemed to be under the weather lately. That couldn’t be right, though. He certainly felt anxious, but not for any particular reason.

Then, out of nowhere tonight, he started sobbing. Something strange was going on inside his head, and he needed to know what. He hadn’t felt incredibly creative these past few days—or, weeks?—, so maybe something was up with Roman.

Thomas dried his tears and stood in the middle of the living room. He didn’t often summon the Sides—normally they popped up on their own or summoned each other. He knew how to do it, though. He gestured in the direction of Roman’s corner and mimed yanking him up. Nothing happened.

_Roman felt the pull, but wouldn’t answer it. No one could force Creativity out of the Imagination. He … he wasn’t presentable, anyhow. Thomas couldn’t see him like … like this._

“Roman?” Thomas tried. “Princey?” Nothing.

It wasn’t the first time, he realized. Roman had failed to appear when his dignity was injured. He shrugged, then recalled how apathetic he’d been feeling, then his sudden burst of emotion. Perhaps something was wrong with Patton.

Thomas mimicked the summoning action in the direction of the blinds.

_Patton was curled up in bed with a cup of hot chocolate. Logan sat on the chair beside his bed, talking about theories and occasionally running breathing exercises with him. It was … nice. Comforting. Comforting enough that he forgot to rise up when he felt the pull._

Nothing. No Roman, and now no Patton. Thomas was beginning to feel anxious about this—perhaps Virgil could be summoned.

_Deceit was tending his garden in the Imagination, attempting to calm himself enough to get back to sleep. He felt the pull behind his navel and briefly wondered why Thomas would be summoning _him_. Then he remembered that he had redirected all of Virgil’s summons to himself, as he was currently playing the part of Virgil. He didn’t feel like being him right now. Thomas would be fine._

That couldn’t be right. Thomas tried again; nothing. His last hope was someone who he hoped could explain this.

_Logan cut off in the middle of a word as he felt the summons. Patton gave him a curious look, to which he tiredly rubbed his eyes and said, “Excuse me, Patton. I’ll return as soon as I can.”_

Logan rose up, a cup of tea cradled in his hands. “Salutations, Thomas. How may I assist?”

“Logan what the _heck_ is going _on_?!”

“I’m afraid I need you to be a bit more specific than that.”

Unbelievable. How could he not know? Thomas pointed wordlessly at the spots where his Sides normally stood.

Logan shifted uncomfortably. “Ah. I suppose you’ve attempted to summon the other Sides.”

“Where are they?! I’ve been feeling _awful _for weeks! Yesterday I couldn’t even make myself get out of bed!”

“Thomas—”

“No!” He was not going to be placated! “Why haven’t I been able to create? Why couldn’t I get out of bed yesterday? Why did I start sobbing out of nowhere tonight? Why are you so calm?!”

“Thomas. Listen.”

Thomas stopped ranting, still heated. He let himself listen to Logan, who looked unimaginably tired. Logan took a long sip of his tea, then vanished the drink with a wave of his hand.

“The other Sides are currently unwell. Recall the video we created on negative thinking?”

Thomas nodded.

Logan continued wearily. “Roman and Patton were not capable of making an appearance, due to Roman being, er, out of sorts and Patton caring for him. This is a similar situation.”

Thomas furrowed his brow. His anger had disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I didn’t do anything that hurt them, did I?”

“Oh no, this is in no way your fault,” Logan was quick to reassure. “They are simply out of commission for the time being.”

“Oh.” That made sense, Thomas supposed. He remembered his uncaring attitude that had finally broken tonight. It might have been Patton ill with a fever, now recovering.

“Do you need me for any further issues?”

“I don’t think so.” It was probably for the best. Logan looked like he was about to collapse. As he sank out, he spoke.

“Please go to bed as soon as possible. We all need to sleep.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Panic! At The Disco - This Is Gospel https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HylqSfp-1o
> 
> Tw: Deceit, food mention
> 
> A/N: Hey all! This is one of the first chapters I planned out. It was inspired by the recommended listening, particularly the line “Truth be told, I never was yours”. Please enjoy this flashback! I appreciate you guys.

Virgil woke with a start. His room was dark—it was still night, then. Usually, he only woke before Thomas if there was a threat in the Mindscape.

He glanced at his clock to check the time, then remembered that his clock didn’t actually tell the time, it just spun possessedly.

A creak came from outside his door. Virgil started, then froze. He knew now why he’d woken.

It was time.

He took a moment to get up, just staring at the dark, webbed ceiling above him. He relished the warmth of his bed, the comforting darkness of his bedroom, the calming sound of the water filter in his fish tank (a beta fish, which he definitely just had for the aesthetic. Not because, you know, he was attached to Verne). Eventually, though, he sat up and pulled his hoodie on. He caught a glimpse of his own eyes in the mirror, visible only through the purple glow that was gently emanating from him. Brown orbs stared fearfully. He moved on.

Virgil silently slipped from his room, easing the door shut behind him. He passed Roman’s room, then Logan’s, and crept down the staircase. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see the Side that was sitting at the kitchen table, one lamp illuminating a circle in the darkness around him, but his heart leaped anyhow.

Deceit said nothing, his hetero-chromatic eyes boring into Virgil’s soul. A pile of paper sat on the table, directly in front of the seat across from Deceit.

Virgil took the seat. The chair squeaked as he pulled closer to the table, making him cringe. Noises often woke Patton—he didn’t want anyone here.

Virgil spent what felt like hours carefully reading every page in front of him. Some pages had uncomfortably detailed testimonies. Others required signatures and testimonies of his own. He carefully wrote them out, short and succinct, his letters small and uneven. Other pages still laid out rules and clauses, with spaces for amendments prepared. Whenever Virgil penned one in, a gloved hand snatched up the paper and mismatched eyes scanned it, before Deceit gave a satisfied nod and handed it back.

Finally, he reached the final page. There were four lines on the page—one for his name in print, then one for his signature beside it. Below those were lines for the witness’s printed name, then his signature. Those were already filled in with an elegant _D. Sanders_, the date noted beside.

Virgil brought his pen to the paper, then froze. Did he really want to do this? Was this really a thing he needed?

Then Virgil remembered the love Patton looked at him with. How hard Roman tried to include him. How listened-to Logan made him feel.

He didn’t deserve them.

Without letting himself second-guess any further, Virgil scratched his name out then scrawled his signature beside it. He barely completed the ‘19’ on the date before it was whisked away from him. Deceit eagerly examined the page, then smiled and stacked the rest of the papers atop it. One snap of Deceit’s fingers and it vanished.

“Shall we?”

Virgil hadn’t looked up from where the papers had laid. His eyes bored into the suddenly-bare table. A sticky spot of syrup left over from the day’s breakfast brought back memories of Patton making snowman pancakes, Roman constructing them into impossible towers, Logan pretending to be uninterested but eyes alight as he guided Roman on improving the structural integrity. The memories held an almost shiny quality, as if they were too real to be true.

Perhaps someday, he’d feel worthy of that experience.

Virgil glanced up. Deceit was now standing, a hand extended to Virgil. Virgil swallowed his dry throat. He stood as well.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed four o'clock as Virgil’s hand met gloved fingers, then they were gone.

-

“_Have either of you seen Virgil this week?”_


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: AJR - Karma https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy1JwiXHwI4
> 
> Tw: Roman’s just not having a good time of it y’all

“Roman.”

Roman froze. He knew he should have gone straight to his room and not gone downstairs. Curse his sudden craving for chicken and waffles. He slowly turned. Logan sat in the armchair in the corner of the living room.

“Ah, Logan!” he tried. “How’s it going?”

The steely gaze he was met with answered him.

Logan stood, a blanket falling off his lap, revealing grey pajama pants. It reminded Roman that he himself was wearing pajamas, a fact he’d forgotten during his time in the Imagination.

“Do you know how long it’s been?” If possible, Logan sounded even more tired than he looked—which was exhausted. The bags under his eyes were so large, Roman thought they might be able to hold an airpod in each one, a rather revolutionary way of storing them. He shook the thought away. That was a stupid thing to come up with—he wasn’t Remus, after all.

Roman had an idea of how long it had been, but he said nothing.

“Five hours.” When Roman didn’t respond, Logan reiterated. “It has been five hours and twenty-one minutes. Thomas is _exhausted._ You are aware he has trouble sleeping when you are in the Imagination. Why did you not return home in the time frame I gave you?”

The disapproving tone hit Roman like a ton of bricks. The tears he’d thought were all cried-out threatened to make an appearance. Couldn’t Logan tell he felt awful? Of course not, that was ridiculous, and a babyish thing to think. Logan was a 2005 Dell laptop, old and tired and boring and oblivious to feelings. All Roman wanted was for someone to tell him that yeah, things sucked, but they loved him anyway and were proud of him. Was that too much to ask?

“I’ll go up to my room,” Roman heard himself mumble. His heart was screaming out for whatever comfort food he could find in the kitchen, but he ignored it and shuffled back toward the staircase.

“Roman, I’m not done speaking.” Roman turned back. Logan looked almost concerned. “You have not been your usual self today,” Logan continued. “Is something wrong? Are you sulking due to a lack of attention?”

Attention was everything he didn’t (and did?) want at the moment. Most of Roman wanted to be left alone, wanted everyone to mind their own business and pretend like nothing was wrong. The rest of him wanted them to acknowledge that no, he was not okay, but reassure him that they were here for him every step of the way.

The two conflicting feelings fighting for dominance, Roman said nothing. He ignored Logan’s repeated use of his name and trudged up the stairs. He paused at his own bedroom door and looked past it. He could pop in on Patton, see if the fatherly Side was still awake and up for a visit.

He decided against it. He knew Patton would welcome him with open arms, but he really didn’t want to bother him. Besides, Patton would probably want to talk with him about what was wrong, ask questions that were too tender to ask.

Roman realized, with a start, that the companionship he desired was Virgil’s. Virgil wouldn’t ask questions, wouldn’t try too hard to make him feel better. Virgil would pop in a Disney movie and grab blankets, and the two of them would enjoy the film until Roman felt reassured and calm enough to sleep. Roman missed Virgil.

Tears once again trying to force themselves from his eyes, Roman quietly went into his own room, shut the door, and collapsed on his bed.

-

Roman rolled over to his side, sleep blurring his vision. Footsteps up the stairs alerted him to someone coming up to the hall, and he quickly buried himself in blankets. No doubt Logan would be coming to try to talk to him. Sure enough, his door creaked open. A moment passed, then his bed dipped as someone sat on the corner.

“Roman.”

That was Logan. Roman continued to breathe evenly and feign sleep.

“Roman. _Roman._”

Logan was persistent. Well, too bad, because Roman’s most prominent trait was his dedication. Nobody was going to wake him up from a false sleep.

“Roman, I don’t know what the matter is, and I won’t unless you tell me.” Logan sounded annoyed. Roman resolved further to not tell him.

“I will be leaving this morning. Please don’t let Patton follow. And don’t follow yourself, either.”

Roman almost sat up just to say _“screw you, I’m coming”_, but caught himself just in time and turned the movement into a shift in position.

“I’ve had an idea. I think I may know a way to get Virgil back. I will possibly be gone for an extended length of time, depending on whether or not my theory is correct. I trust you to take care of Patton.”

The mattress sprang as the weight left it. Roman almost let him go. He almost thought _good riddance_ and went back to sleep. Last minute, he remembered his promise to Virgil.

Roman promised protect them.

“Logan, wait.”

Roman sat up. He could now see the satchel slung over Logan’s shoulder, the jacket covering the black polo. Logan paused and turned back. He appeared to have gotten some sleep, but his eyes showed depths of weariness.

“I made a promise,” Roman began, “to keep you and Patton safe. And maybe … maybe I’ve already failed,” he said, thinking of Remus. “But I can’t let you walk right into what could be a trap.”

“Roman, I did not request permission.”

“For the best, because I’m not going to grant it.”

Logan’s satchel fell to the floor with a heavy _thunk_. It was clear that he’d been looking for any reason to stay. However, Roman knew that Logan’s stubbornness would insist he go anyway. He was proved correct by Logan’s next words.

“I can’t help you here. I have no reason to stay without knowing what I can do to assist in improving your current condition.”

“I’ll tell you everything.” Roman heard the words slip out of his mouth and instantly regretted them. Too late. “Please stay. If not for me, then for Virgil, and Patton.”

Logan shook himself. “Ah, Patton. I ought to check up on him.” He abandoned his satchel and made for the door.

Roman rolled out of bed and shuffled after Logan, headed toward Patton’s room. The moral Side wasn’t there; Roman assumed Patton was in the bathroom or downstairs. Then he noticed Logan’s face pale. Then he saw the folded sheet of paper on Patton’s neatly-made bed.

_RoLo (haha!),_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Don’t know how it could, though—it doesn’t have eyes!_

_Thanks for sharing your theory with me, Logan. I think I know where it is, so I’ll find it. I was blindfolded for part of the way, and, uh, I don’t remember the way from when Ro led us, so, uh, I don’t know why I’m writing these ‘uh’s down, I’m writing in pencil, I should have erased them, but too late now—I’ve already written a bunch after them and then there would be these weird gaps in between words and the eraser might smudge some <strike>some</strike> stuff so I’ll just leave them in. Anyway, er, I don’t really know how to say this._

_I uh, I might be gone for a while. So I had a message for the both of you. I prepared this in advance, so all I have to do is copy it down. No weird pauses or ‘uh’s!_

_Logan, thank you for taking such good care of us. I promise I’m not trying to get Virgil! Please don’t come after me. I can do this!_

_Roman, it’s okay to not be okay all the time. You guys taught me that. All sun all the time sounds nice, but a world without rain is a <strike>dessert</strike> desert. You’ll get through whatever this is._

_Love you, kiddos! Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine._

_-Patton_

The two didn’t speak as the reread the letter. Roman found himself frantically wiping at sudden wetness in his eyes—Patton always knew just what to say.

Finally, Logan broke the silence.

“That … run-on sentence. Truly horrifying.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Cab - Angel With a Shotgun https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oxd6pXSYkzE
> 
> Tw: Deceit, Remus, very brief disturbing thoughts

It was time.

Deceit shook off the small part of himself that said this wasn’t right. It had been growing louder as of late, objecting with his every choice. Arguing with the part of him that was encouraging of this path. It didn’t matter now.

It was time.

Deceit passed through the kitchen in a trance, not even registering the way Remus watched him curiously. Remus didn’t matter. Soon all would be put at rights.

It was time.

“Dee? You all right?”

“I’m fine, Remus. Go to bed.” It was early morning, after all. But Remus didn’t go to bed. Instead, he stared at Deceit, who finally looked at him.

“Everything is fine,” Deceit lied smoothly. “I’m in control.” He wasn’t, though, was he? He was barely in control of his own head. Dark thoughts swirled, reminding him of Remus. That little part of him that said it was wrong was barely holding its own. Maybe he should listen to it?

_No,_ the rest of his mind assured him. _It’s weakness. Holding you back. You don’t need it._

_It is time._

Deceit sunk out, through the floor, appearing in the cold, dark room. Purple emanated dimly from the shadowy form curled up on the ground.

“Virgil.”

The form twitched, then sat up suddenly. Deceit saw sleepy fear, uninhibited panic. He shoved down that voice that screamed at him, said that he couldn’t do this, that it wouldn’t help any of them, wouldn’t help Thomas.

“N-no, I-I’m not ready!”

Deceit felt his lips curl cruelly. It was time.

-

Thomas lay awake. He’d slept for a while, and slept well. Then Remus just had to visit.

“What do you need, Duke?”

Remus laughed delightedly. “Something bad is happening!” he said. “Something very bad! I can’t say anything—he won’t let me—but something deliciously awful is about to happen!”

Panic rose in Thomas’s chest. His thoughts flew—his mom? Was she okay? His dad? His friends? He picked up his phone, intent on making calls right now, despite the early hour—

“Nothing’s happening to them, dunce!” Remus giggled. “But what if… .”

Flashes of car accidents, kidnappings, blood and organs and—

“Stoooooooppp,” Thomas groaned. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Remus blinked, then smiled slightly. “Something’s happening,” he said slowly. “Something you won’t like. It’s too late to stop it!”

That didn’t sound good. Thomas felt the panic fall to his stomach and morph into dread. What was going on? “What do you want me to do about it?” he asked, barely able to choke out the words.

Remus suddenly grew serious. “Tell them,” he said. “Tell them. Tell them. Tell them. Tell them. They have to stop him.”

“Tell who?”

“Tell them. Tell them. Tell them!”

“The—the light Sides?”

“Tell them! Tell them!” Remus was coming uncomfortably close, eyes glowing green as he leaned over Thomas’s bed. Thomas scrambled back.

“I will, all right! I will.” Thomas breathed a sigh of relief as Remus backed away. “Tell them what?”

“I can’t say.” Remus smiled again. “But they’ll figure it out!”

Then he was gone, leaving Thomas with a pounding heart and sweat rolling down his brow. What did Remus mean? What was going on?

-

The Imagination was windier than it had been the last time Patton came through. Storm clouds gathered in the sky above, looming over the wind-bent trees with undefinable malice. Not an animal was in sight, the grass whipping at his heels as he crossed.

Still Patton trekked on, his cat hoodie no longer tied around his shoulders but pulled over his polo. He wasn’t planning on giving up just because of a little bad weather.

He wasn’t sure where he was going. He’d never been good with directions, that was more Logan’s thing. And he certainly wasn’t good with the Imagination, that was Roman’s thing. Patton was good with working out conflicts, and that was what he was going to do.

_“Deceit seemed to think I meant the rules when I asked where you were,”_ Logan had explained over a meal the night before. _“That suggests that there is a physical copy of these rules—perhaps even this contract that Virgil signed. I would suppose, were we to find it, a loophole could be exploited. In fact, I plan on leaving tomorrow to search for it. Now, however, Thomas needs rest. Roman should be returning any minute.”_

Patton had gone to bed shortly after that conversation, despite wanting to stay up and wait for Roman. Logan insisted he sleep, though, so he tried, only to have his nightmares plagued by a constantly-returning image. A dark, cramped, musty room. A mirror, shattered and in pieces on the floor. A twin-sized bed shoved into a corner.

And, peeking out from under the bed, a small wooden chest, the chains encircling it glowing yellow.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Bon Jovi - Keep The Faith https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqhqGnQcKJY
> 
> Tw: Body horror, Deceit mention, Remus mention, there’s… a lot of pain in this one
> 
> A/N: I meant to post this over the weekend, but life happens. This is a big one, guys. I’ve been building up to this since chapter 12. This is a big one.

“_Thomas? You seemed really out of it yesterday. Are you doing all right? Do you need anything? We’re here for you, just let us know.”_

The voicemail ended, and Thomas let his phone fall to the couch. He had been out of it yesterday—spooked by Remus’s early morning message, distracted by trying to figure it out. He didn’t want to see his friends. He didn’t want to do anything—except he _had_ to do everything. His anxiety was three notches above normal, but he couldn’t find enough inspiration to even think about working. Not that this was an incredibly new problem, but it did feel like a good thing to resolve with the Sides.

“Logan? I need some help, buddy.”

Logan shot up from nowhere and straightened his glasses. “Yes?”

“Roman?”

Roman also rose up at the summons. “Ah, yes. Good morning.”

Thomas looked between the two. He thought they’d be best for this discussion, but maybe he ought to reconsider. Roman looked impeccable as always, but his eyes were shadowed and smile seemed false. Logan was clearly exhausted, though certainly in better condition than he’d been the last time Thomas had seen him. They both looked at him expectantly, and Thomas decided to plow on.

“Guys—what is happening?”

Roman looked away. Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

“Thomas, I suppose it is time—”

“To come clean,” Roman finished, still not making eye contact. Logan frowned.

“Yes, Roman, that is true. Thomas, you would do good to shower if you intend to leave the house. However, that is not what I was planning to say.”

“Vocab cards a bit outdated, huh?” Roman muttered. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

“Guys, I don’t need you bickering right now,” Thomas spoke loudly over Logan’s reply. “My anxiety is pretty heightened right now.”

“You called?”

-

“_A test,”_ Deceit had said. _“To see if they fall for it.”_

Virgil hadn’t been able to respond, or even move, as he lay frozen on the ground. His hand had lifted, eyes had blinked, feet had stood—all with no input from Virgil himself.

“Virgil? Is that … really you?”

Logan’s voice cut through the fog of pain. Virgil wanted to answer, wanted to say that no, it wasn’t really him. His mouth opened, and his tongue and lips were pulled into words by the snakes with their fangs digging into him.

“Duh, Lo. Can’t you tell?”

Logan said something else, then Thomas spoke, but Virgil couldn’t focus on the conversation. He was sickened—not just from the pain, but from _how_ the pain was. He’d seen Deceit do this to another Side, and hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Virgil briefly wondered if Remus had felt the snakes curl around his bones as well, if he’d choked as they slithered up his throat, if he’d screamed as they squirmed into his ear canals. The world was blindingly red, shapes pushing through and searing themselves into his brain, and the only thing Virgil wished for was the comforting black of unconsciousness. The snakes propped his eyes open, the ones latched onto the back of his tongue kept him talking. He wasn’t needed here. Why couldn’t he just pass out?

“I suppose … no problem… .” Logan said something, his voice coming from miles away. Virgil wanted to scream, yell that there very much _was_ a problem, but maybe Thomas could tell. Thomas was growing more fidgety by the second, and for a moment made eye contact with Virgil—a moment only because the snakes forced his gaze away.

“… Virge … eye … darken … ?”

Thomas had noticed! Virgil’s heart leapt, but his mouth said something else. It was something soft, meant to put those around him at ease, but was negated by the low rumble echoing it.

“Vir … down … ning?”

Virgil gasped airlessly, then his mouth clamped shut. Before he could try to do anything, the snakes wrapped around the bones in his fingers gripped his hood and pulled it up, sending sharp burns through his hands. The snakes biting the insides of his knees pulled him down.

Virgil sank out.

-

“I swear we’ll explain later, Thomas.”

“Not later, Roman! Why has Deceit been impersonating Virgil?”

Roman shifted uncomfortably. He really didn’t want to talk about it (a voice in the back of his head reminded him that he’d promised to tell Logan), and he knew he’d have flashbacks if he tried to relate everything that had happened.

“Apologies, Thomas, but this new development requires our immediate attention,” Logan said. “Consider taking it easy today. Perhaps watch that television show you’ve been wanting to see?”

Thomas went to speak again, but Roman was already sinking out. Tears were building up behind his eyes, and he couldn’t hold them back any longer.

_He looked like he was in so much pain. What did Deceit do? Was that even Virgil?_

_That wasn’t Virgil. That couldn’t have been Virgil!_

_Right?_


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Dodie - Monster https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_L5ONAiDAE
> 
> Tw: Deceit, brief body horror, Remus, a knife makes an appearance, mentions of killing, mentions of kidnapping
> 
> A/N: So at some point @Drabblewritingbitch said it felt like half of Deceit wanted to hurt Virgil and half of him didn’t, which is exactly what I was trying to get across. To make it even more obvious, I wrote this–a look inside his head.

“Remus. Leave. Me. Alone.”

“What did you do with him?!”

Ah. He’d discovered that Patton was missing. Took him long enough. Deceit felt his fists clench. “Remus,” he said, voice dangerously low, “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Just like you won’t tell me about Virgil.”

Deceit turned. Remus’s face was defiantly stony, an unspoken dare.

_Kill him! He knows too much._

Deceit pushed the thought away. It seemed like the two parts of himself argued night and day.

_Lock him up, just like before. That’ll teach him to try and get our secrets._

Deceit pushed the thought away. Why couldn’t his head shut up for one minute?

We_ can’t risk him telling everyone. Fill him with snakes. We can handle two puppets._

_No, we can’t! Just keeping Virgil under control is so much work._

_Then kill him._

_No! We have to protect him!_

_Why?_

_Because—_

_No. Nobody owes anything to anyone. Debt is a lie._

_Lying is good! We lie!_

_Yeah. To get what we want._

“Remus, please.” Deceit rubbed his temples. He had a raging migraine. These days, he regretted having ever fed into the part of himself that enjoyed the torture. It had been much quieter before. Now it roared like a rushing river, trying to drown the rest of him. He caught Remus’s slightly concerned look.

“You feeling good?” Remus asked hesitantly.

“Always.”

It was an old tradition, Remus asking and Deceit responding the same way every time. However, what was normally comforting and homey only served to add to the headache as the voices got louder. He grimaced.

“Do you need some tea? Toast? Gummy bears?”

Deceit almost smiled. Remus was so … _distractible_. “No, thank you. Sugar would definitely calm my pounding head.”

“Go lie down, then,” urged Remus. Then he smiled. “Or tell me where Patton is.”

He didn’t know where the anger came from. But there he was, a knife suddenly wrapped in his shaking fist, and Deceit could feel it boiling inside of him, the urge to just—just—

He lunged, a snarl on his lips and red in his sight. “Don’t talk to me, _freak_, I will _rip_—”

Then he stopped, his own hand slapping over his mouth. What was he doing? He took a deep breath to clear the red, and when he looked up, Remus hadn’t moved. Remus’s arms were folded over his chest, his eyes leveled a glare in Deceit’s direction.

“Rip what, exactly?” Remus growled.

Deceit let his shaking hand fall from his mouth. He’d attacked _Remus_, the only person even remotely on his side. Not that he cared about him, of course. Definitely not. Just—just a means to an end. Nothing to do with feelings.

“Just don’t touch him,” Deceit said wearily. “Promise me you won’t kidnap anyone again. Promise.”

Remus inspected his fingernails, giving off a bored air. “What will I get out of this deal?”

Deceit threw his hands up, frustrated again. “It’s not a deal!” he argued. “I—please. Please promise.”

Remus looked up and—did his eyes soften? “All right,” Remus said, an almost pleasant smile on his face. “I promise. I promise I won’t kidnap Morality.”

“Any of them—”

“That’s a promise I can’t make!”

Deceit rolled his eyes. “Fine. And,” he smiled as well, “thank you.”

It was a markedly fond look Remus gave him. “Go to bed, snakeface.”

Deceit nodded. On the inside, the pause his thoughts had given him had ended. Perhaps sleeping would quell the incessant yelling and snark inside his head.

He almost tripped over Virgil upon stumbling into the dimly-lit closet with the smashed mirror and the dusty bed in the corner. He must be truly tired—it had been a while since he’d tried to sleep in his old bedroom.

Virgil’s eyes were closed; he lay on the floor, stiff as a board. A single drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. Snakes made of yellow mist curled around him and lazily weaved through his orifices.

_This … this is wrong._

_No. This is the only thing that’s right._

Deceit left, closing—but not bothering to lock—the door behind him. There was too much to think about in that room. If he needed anything, it was to not think.

There were consequences coming. Deceit could taste it in the air, feel it in his very bones.

_Bad_ _ consequences! We need to protect. Let Virgil go._

_Good_ _ consequences. Things are changing. We need to change with them. If we want to be on top, it’s time to get to work. Finish him._


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Crane Wives - Metaphor https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36hNmOZUbgM
> 
> Tw: Remus, brief body horror, brief mention of gore, talk of death

Patton had walked down that unending hall for what felt like years before a window appeared in the wall to his right. Cautiously, he peered in. No curtains or blinds hid an unlit kitchen from his view. The window was unlatched, he realized with surprise, as he pulled it open. It was set in the wall over a counter, so Patton squeezed through as quietly as possible. He almost knocked over a cup sitting out, but caught it at the last possible second.

Patton slowly crept through to the kitchen doorway. One look back at the ajar kitchen window showed a starry night sky. No turning back, he supposed.

_It’s just like that Hobbit computer game! _Patton told himself as he crouched behind a couch, on his way to the staircase. The only light in the room came from a TV with the volume on low, illuminating the area with an eerie, flickering glow. It was playing a documentary Thomas had seen as a teenager, called _Goriest Accidental Deaths in History_. Patton shuddered to remember it. He’d spent weeks comforting light and dark Sides alike after Thomas had watched that.

The stairs were dark, so dark Patton almost fell back down them. But a yellow glow seeping out from under one of the doors in the hallway above gave him just enough light to walk. He needed to push through, hurry, check every door that didn’t look like Deceit was inside. He halted at the door, though. Patton was, unfortunately, too curious for his own good. Dreading what he might find, he pushed the door open.

Virgil.

Or, at least, something that looked like Virgil. The thing’s mouth was hanging open, and what appeared to be yellow snakes lazily dove in and out of it. The Virgil-puppet lay on the floor, totally limp, eyes scrunched closed.

Patton turned away as bile rose in his throat. Was this the Virgil that had been responding to Thomas’s calls? They’d thought it was just Deceit shape-shifting, but if he had this puppet—then Patton looked back, realization striking him.

Patton knew this room. The shards of glass on the floor. The cold concrete. The dingy bed pushed into the corner. The chest protruding out from under it.

The chest.

Patton carefully stepped over the Virgil-puppet and crouched down over the chest. It was small—small enough for him to carry, but he’d certainly have to hold both arms around it—and three chains wrapped around it, each one glowing a light gold, same as the snakes. Patton almost couldn’t restrain himself from reaching out and touching one, but he pulled his hand away and shook his sleeves over his fingers before encircling his arms around the chest.

He pulled it out and up. Patton was surprised to find it weighed exactly as he imagined. Not too heavy, but not exactly light, either. It fit awkwardly in his arms, clunky and catching on his sleeves. He stumbled a bit with the weight, narrowly avoiding tripping over the Virgil-puppet, the snakes criss-crossing over his chest undisturbed.

Patton did his best to step quietly down the hall and stairs. Crawling behind the couch was harder than it had been without the chest, and before he could stop, his sleeve pulled up and a chain grazed his skin.

-

_Dark. Dark that bled into every crevice, revoking all notion of anything that had once existed. Dark that pressed on eyes, made one believe that the light would never be restored._

_Then, words. Shining in the darkness. Still dark, just … different._

_ **They all hate you.** _

-

“Hey, Patton,” a voice said, and a living room faded into view. Patton blinked. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. At some point, he’d ended up flat on his back, the chest beside him. Dread filled his very being as he registered the face peering over the back of the couch.

Remus.

“Hrngh,” Patton managed, scooting away. The movement brought fuzzy blackness to the edge of his vision, and he paused. Remus flipped over the back of the couch and offered a hand.

“Come sit down! Don’t worry—Dee made me promise to not kidnap you.”

Patton glanced around at those words, making sure Deceit was nowhere to be seen. He ignored Remus’s hand—the same hand that had covered his mouth not long ago—and picked up the chest instead, extra careful to avoid the chains. He begrudgingly followed Remus around the couch, eyes scanning for any escape opportunity.

Patton flinched away from the TV as a particularly blood-curdling scream came from it. He had to remind himself that it was okay, the lady didn’t really need help, she was just an actor. Remus chuckled, and with a wave of his hand, the television snapped off, leaving the room in almost total darkness. Another wave of his hand, and a lamp clicked on.

“Don’t want any distractions, do we?”

Patton shook his head quickly, then sat in an ominously stained armchair, as far from Remus as possible. Remus seemed to debate as to where to sit, before settling onto the torn cushions of the couch across from Patton.

The two sat in an uncomfortable silence for far too many awkward moments. Beads of sweat formed on Patton’s temples as Remus stared, not at Patton himself, but at the chest clutched in his arms. Remus’s mouth moved soundlessly as his eyes roved over the chains. Patton noticed a hallowed look come over Remus’s face, aging him greatly. The purple around his eyes seemed to darken—but perhaps it was just a trick of the low light.

“What can you tell me about the King?”

Patton blinked. That had come out of nowhere. “The—the King?” he asked haltingly. “Like the King of England? King George the III, or Henry the VIII?”

Remus’s head tilted, an—annoyed?—glint in his eyes. “Divorced, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived,” he said in a sing-song voice. The voice dropped. “_Exactly_ what I’m talking about. When Roman and I divorced, beheaded, and survived, someone had to have divorced, beheaded, and died.”

“Oh, Tiv,” Patton nodded. He felt his cheeks grow hot with Remus’s patronizing tones. “We never called him the King. Just Tiv.”

Remus waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t care. How did he act—like, just before the split?”

Patton frowned. He understood wanting to know about one’s past, but why now? He was busy—if his internal clock was any judge, it had taken him several days to find this place, and it would likely take just as long to get back. But he was scared of Remus. It seemed to be best to just go along with him for now.

“Just before the split?”

“Just before the split.”

“Umm… .” Patton wracked his brain. “Well, it was a long time ago. Thomas must’ve been eight or nine. And Tiv … he didn’t really like me too much.” It hurt to admit that, but Remus wouldn’t care. “Deceit knew him best, maybe you should ask him.”

Remus didn’t move; his eyes bored into Patton. Patton knew he wasn’t going to get out of it that easily, but it had been worth a try. He cleared his throat and continued.

“Back then, we didn’t really go by our names. We didn’t get names until Thomas was a teen, now that I think about it. So I was Al, Logan was Lo, Deceit was Dee, and Creativity was Tiv. I didn't—”

“What about Virgil?” Remus interrupted.

Patton tapped his chin thoughtfully, relaxing into the chair a bit. “We … we didn’t know Virge at that time.”

“Oh.”

“Well, Tiv started avoiding us. He would tell me his stomach hurt, then stay in his room all day. The day before he split, I overheard him telling Lo that it felt like he was… .” Patton struggled to remember exactly what the Side had said. “Something about how he felt like he was fighting himself over everything. And not being sure which part of himself he wanted to win. He spent a lot of time in bed those last few days—I remember bringing soup to him. We didn’t know what was wrong—a Side had never gotten sick before. Then, one night, two boys came down for dinner.”

“The first dressed in black, the second in white,” Remus whispered. “Twins that were one: divorced, beheaded, _survived_.” He smiled at the rhyme. “Born in death. Fitting, don’t ya think? Blessing me, tainting Roman.”

“Well, if that’s all—”

“Do you think it could happen again?”

Patton froze mid-rise. Why would it happen again? Tiv had split because he’d started to develop two differing minds, from what Patton could tell. Did Remus think he was going to split again? If so, why? Not for the first time, Patton wondered what was going on in Remus’s head.

“I don’t know,” he eventually answered, dubious. “I guess it’s possible. Logan understands it better than me. You should ask him.”

“Maybe I will… .” Remus murmured. He was now slumped on the couch, dark regality crumpling and bunching up. He waved a dismissive hand, clearly far away.

Patton took the chance. He sped back to the kitchen and ignored the night sky, pushing the window open. As soon as it was ajar, the hallway reappeared. He clambered through. He had no intentions of seeking for the actual exit of the house—surely the kitchen window wasn’t how Deceit came in—for fear of getting lost, or being discovered.

He tried to push the conversation out of his mind. It wasn’t too hard—there was a distraction right under his nose. Literally.

Patton re-examined the chest. The chains twinkled innocently. What exactly had happened when he’d touched one?

Too curious for his own good, Patton shook back a sleeve and touched a chain.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Of Monsters and Men - I Of The Storm https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZqOt2ojP1gY
> 
> Tw: Gosh darn this one has so much angst, blood mention, pain, body horror, snakes you guessed it, villain Deceit, talk of death, talk of murder
> 
> A/N: I shake my head as I give the chapter a quick read-through. Another Hairspray reference. I feel utter disappointment well up in my chest, for my past self. How could I? None but I will catch it, making this dark chapter forever humorous in my mind, tarnishing its seriousness. I sigh. It is too late. Enjoy!

He—it?—he—hurt. Pain. Was. Pain was the world. Pain. The—the snakes. They … existed.

He could feel. He could—could he see? Yes, he decided. Colors. Flashes of—flashes of—flashes of—of … he couldn’t remember. It was something important. Like his name.

What was his name again?

He didn’t have one, did he? He was a puppet, after all. Puppets didn’t have names.

Sometimes there was another voice. A snake, hissing something in his ear. Whispering awful, horrible things that he didn’t know were possible, but felt like he should remember.

V-V-Virgil? The one with—Virgil! His name hit him like a ton of bricks, and tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, which he couldn’t open. He couldn’t move a hand to dry his temples.

“Does it hurt?”

It did, overwhelmingly so, but Virgil couldn’t acknowledge the whoever had spoken. Suddenly, the snakes latched on his tongue and lips released. A groan, then a slurred scream left his mouth as it caught up to the pain. Whoever was there chuckled softly.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the voice (D-D-D-something) purred, as soon as Virgil paused for a breath. He gritted his teeth, failing to hold back another shout.

He was only a puppet—a puppet given a voice. Was a puppet supposed to have a name, though? He didn’t think so.

He’d had a blurred existence so far, but as more snakes retracted their teeth from his body, his head cleared slowly and the pain grew exponentially.

He blinked blearily as a form wavered above him. Screams pierced his ears, and he realized that they were still coming from his own mouth. He let them out—the combination of white-hot pain all over and the sensation of snakes coiling in his stomach warranted that, at least.

A—something—covered his mouth, then shoved a balled up piece of fabric past his teeth. Virgil choked, tears streaming from his eyes. The form before him drew back slightly.

“Virgil, I’d like you to know that I’ve come very close to killing you several times.”

D-D—Dee?—came into sharper focus, each feature marginally less blurry and a mass of scales definable. His stomach turned (and not just because of the snakes) at the sight. Something was deeply upsetting about the snake-like gleam of the yellow eye set amongst the dull scales. He felt he should remember why. It seemed important.

“Are you there, Virgil? I most certainly want to speak to you only to find out you weren’t entirely present.”

Deceit—Deceit!—’s voice seemed to be a few seconds behind his mouth, which closed before the last couple of words hit Virgil’s aching ears.

Virgil blinked slowly, relishing the ability to do so. He still couldn’t move his arms and legs (the snakes tightened painfully around his bones at the thought) but he could blink, and move his eyes, and he was in control of his mouth—as much as one was when gagged. Another voice, thin and far away, cut through his thoughts.

“Dee? What’s going on up there? Can I join?”

Deceit’s face flickered with something Virgil thought might be irritation. It made him want to run away. “I have this under control, thank you, Remus,” Deceit called back.

Who was Remus?

“It didn’t take you this long to wake up last time,” Deceit muttered. It took Virgil far too long to realize the words were directed at him.

Last time? How long had Virgil been so out of it? How could he still not understand what was going on, or remember what had happened ‘last time’?

“You really _aren’t_ easier to deal with like this.” Virgil watched Deceit’s mouth carefully as the Side knelt beside him. He wanted to catch the exact moment his lips matched up with his words—a feat that would be easier managed if he could only stop crying.

“There’s only one way to kill a Side,” Deceit continued. “Strip them of their very essence. I’m slowly taking away everything that makes you _you_, Virgil. Do you even remember Thomas?”

Thomas?

Deceit laughed darkly. “I want to kill you. I want to plunge a knife into your chest and watch you _choke_ as blood bubbles _from your lips_. But that won’t kill you. Not permanently. It will hurt, of course, but the most that will happen is a comatose state for several days. That wouldn’t help Thomas. More importantly, though, I wouldn’t get to watch the light leave your eyes. I wouldn’t get to know that I had wiped you from existence. And you would still be here.”

Virgil shuddered—or, tried to. Only his face was capable of moving. He made a noise in the back of his throat that Deceit didn’t seem to hear, the Side’s eyes suddenly very far away.

“Not yet,” Deceit said distantly. “It won’t help. Leave—drop it.” Deceit shook himself, then looked back at Virgil. He scoffed.

“You don’t understand me, do you?” Deceit laughed again. “No matter. You’re dying, Virgil. You’re dying, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Soon you’ll be replaced by a new anxiety, who won’t remember any of this, or any of us. Completely new. No … no memories.” Deceit seemed to forget what he was talking about again, as his eyes glazed over and he stared at the wall. “No memories,” he murmured. “That … would be nice.”

Virgil had memories, though! They were just starting to come back, as if his brain was thawing. He knew who Thomas was, and L-Logan; and Patton, dear Patton! And R—R—Roman! He knew that he himself was Virgil, anxiety, and he remembered what Deceit had done to him—at least, some of it. He didn’t want to forget those things! Forget his friends! He didn’t want to die!

The panic must have been showing on Virgil’s features, because Deceit leaned over him and smiled. “Don’t worry, Virgil,” he said softly. “You deserve this.”

Then the snakes rose up inside of him, and the pain intensified again. Virgil tried to scream past the gag, but a snake pulled his tongue back.

He couldn’t let go of this! He couldn’t forget! He couldn't—he couldn't—

The colors and light slid together before him, and his eyes rolled back. It hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see, could barely think past the absolute pain. That was all right, though. Puppets couldn’t think. They weren’t supposed to. They couldn’t think, they couldn’t move, and they didn’t have names.

Did he—it—have a name?


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - 2am https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=siDmXVq6oX0
> 
> Tw: Roman’s a hurt boi

Sneaking into the kitchen without alerting Logan could be a competitive sport, Roman thought, as he did just that. The next annual Creation Games that he held in the Imagination would have to feature it. He planned it out as he opened the fridge without a creak.

A dark room. Swept with night, a patch of darkness washed light with a moonbeam pushing through the crack in the curtains. Floorboards strategically placed to creak when pressure was applied.

The quest was to retrieve a a small, wooden token from any randomized place in the kitchen-modeled room. Breakables scattered on every surface, cupboards to hide in when whatever represented Logan heard you. A motion sensor!

This felt nice. Roman had been dry when it came to creativity as of late—ironic, as that was what he literally was. Or perhaps it was worrisome, not ironic. It felt good to have a new idea, though, and deep inside, he realized Thomas was smiling. That was good. For the first time since the incident, it felt like things were looking up.

“Roman? What are you doing in the dark?”

The light clicked on and Roman muttered a curse. He spun slowly on his heel. Logan stood in the doorway, one hand still on the light switch. Something between worry and confusion crossed his face. “It’s the middle of the day,” he said slowly. “Why was the light off?”

“Uh… .” The truth? That could be the best lie in this situation. “I … was designing a game!”

Logan’s face lit up in that special way, the way that made Roman feel all warm inside. He knew that that look meant the logical Side was excited, intrigue shining in his eyes and discovery raising his eyebrows. “Really? Might I assist?”

Well, maybe a lie would have been better. Roman _had_ been designing a game, but Logan would likely find it more insulting than interesting. Better to not share.

“It’s not for Thomas to play, probably,” Roman tried to cover. “Just for the peoples of the Imagination. And it’s barely an inkling as of yet. I’ll approach you if I think it’s good enough for Thomas.”

Logan nodded, and seemed to turn to leave. Roman almost laughed in pure relief and joy. How had he escaped the inevitable discussion? Then Logan stopped, and frowned. Deeply. “Roman, while pleased that you seem to be creating, I must say this.”

This. This was precisely what Roman had been attempting to avoid. This dance, that had been repeated too many times over the seven days the Mind Palace had been eerily quiet, lacking Patton’s presence. Over and over again, Logan tried to ask him to explain himself. Over and over again, Roman deflected his questions and slipped away.

“You promised. In exchange for me remaining, you would permit my helping you.” Logan reached out a hand. “Please. Allow me to help.”

Roman stared at the outstretched hand. He—he couldn’t. He didn’t want Logan’s facts. Logan couldn’t offer any empathy, comfort. He wanted … he wanted Virgil. Virgil would understand. Virgil wouldn’t try to make him better. Virgil knew what it was like to be broken.

He had promised Logan, though. He didn’t have to tell the whole thing, just—just the beginning of an explanation. Roman’s hand absently ran across the scars under his shirt, feeling each bump and ridge. It had become a worried habit, a sick sort of comfort. Knowing the words were there gave Roman validation, in a sense.

“I—” Roman’s voice cracked. Just the necessities. Just the surface. He never promised to tell everything at once, after all.

“Would you prefer to sit down?” Logan asked. He let his arm fall and stepped aside, freeing the path to the living room.

Roman practically jumped at the excuse, walking as slowly as possible. More time to plan what to say! More time to decide what he was comfortable with Logan knowing.

Roman sat, and so did Logan. Him on the sofa, Logan in the armchair. Roman considered briefly—he could give Logan the barest of minimums, stating facts already obvious. Or he could start the full explanation. He wasn’t sure he could get through either without crying.

“I… .” Roman trialed off and looked down. How could he start? What could he say? His fingers fidgeted with the ends of his uniform. “I … I can’t… .”

“Roman, are you feeling well? You are looking rather pale.”

Roman shoved his fists into his eyes in frustration. “I want to tell you,” he lied. “I really do, I just—I can't—”

“Roman, it is quite all right.” Logan left his place on the armchair to join Roman on the sofa. “I understand that there is likely trauma involved. I am here to help, to give you someone to speak to.” Hesitantly, he reached out.

Roman scrambled away. Adding touch to this conversation would only make it worse. Then he saw Logan’s expression. Confused, and maybe a little hurt. Now he felt bad.

“I, uh,” he managed. “I can’t touch people. It—it freaks me out.” That wasn’t too hard, was it? Why did he feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes? Why did the shame in his chest threaten to swallow him?

Roman noticed Logan’s eyes fix on his chest, then realized his hand was subconsciously rubbing over his scars again. Roman forced his arm down, but not before Logan’s face softened.

“I see,” Logan said quietly. “That—that’s fine, Roman. If something I am doing is harming you, you need only mention it and I will stop.”

This wasn’t what Roman expected, or wanted. He could hear the pity dripping from Logan’s words, taste his own shame like bile rising to the back of his throat. He didn’t want to cry in front of Logan, but tears leaked out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. The steadying breath he tried to take transformed into a sob.

“It—it’s all right.” Logan almost wrapped his arms around the Side, but seemed to think better of it. Roman pushed himself into the corner of the couch, wishing he could disappear as he choked out tears. “It is all right.”

_It’s not_, Roman wanted to say. _It’s not all right and it never will be._ His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a banging sound in the kitchen.

Logan shot up, eyes on high alert. Before Roman could even roll off the couch, he was in the kitchen.

Roman heard Logan curse loudly and took a moment to dash his tears away. It had to be Deceit. Deceit didn’t need to see how weak he still was.

He grasped at his side and was greeted with the familiar weight of his sword, the worn leather wound around the hilt, the perfect balance of the blade. If Logan needed defending, Roman was going to be there for him.

The sight that greeted him was not what he expected. Logan was leaning over the sink, hands scrabbling at the window set in the wall. As Roman stepped closer, Logan’s fingers pried open the latch and the window burst open as a Side fell through. Roman stepped back quickly, his eyes following a blurred object as it flew across the room, hitting the floor and sliding under the table. Something in Roman’s head told him that it didn’t matter, wasn’t worth him. So he turned his attention back to the Side haphazardly splayed over the sink and counters. His glasses clattered to the floor, and Roman saw his face—red, tear-stained, sallow.

“Don’t touch the chains!” Patton managed, then passed out.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - Telescope https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bxGvrdqRLEA
> 
> Tw: I don’t think there’s anything!
> 
> A/N: This one’s a bit short as I cut it in half. The other half will be presented next chapter, and it’s twice as long as this one! Perhaps Friday or Saturday, since this one’s so short?

Patton was curled up on the couch, swaddled in four blankets, a steaming cup of apple cider clutched to his chest. He shivered despite that, though, so Logan started a fire in the fireplace. He was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t shivering from cold, however.

Roman was perched on the arm of the easy chair. His pink nose was the only evidence that he’d been crying.

Logan knelt on the floor, a chest set before him. It was curious—seemingly plain and old, but the yellow chains belied that feigned unimportance.

Patton had only been unconscious for a matter of minutes, and since waking had repeatedly warned against touching the chains. To ease his concerns, Logan had wrapped a towel around it and carefully removed it from under the kitchen table and into the living room.

Something drew Logan to the chest. Perhaps it was his intense curiosity as to why it was scaring Patton so markedly. Perhaps he wanted to investigate the enchantment on the chest that seemed to be designed to hide it. Perhaps it was because this could be holding the answer, the end to this whole ordeal.

The only logical thing to do was touch one of the chains. There was no way to progress the act of opening it without making contact, and Logan could have no theories on how to open it without knowing the effect that the chains administered. Patton seemed to be physically fine—a little shaken up, but all-in-all, perfectly healthy.

“Please don’t touch it, Logan,” Patton begged. Logan shook himself. He’d been staring at the chest for an unrealized amount of time.

“I’m afraid I must, Patton.” He reached up to the couch and took Patton’s hand in his. For his own strength or for Patton’s, he didn’t know.

Then, with not just a little apprehension, Logan lightly laid one finger on the chain.

His vision went black, and Logan made an involuntary sound of surprise. It returned suddenly, however—distorted? Too-bright, blurred. Strange.

Then words, whispered directly into his ear.

_“You don’t have feelings. Nothing more than a robot.”_

Logan let go instinctively. His vision sparked black again, then cleared. Back to normal this time. “What just happened?” he asked slowly. He met Patton’s fearful eyes. Patton said nothing. There was a bad taste in the back of Logan’s throat, reminding him of the feeling he got when Deceit lied without reason.

Lies.

Of course! Patton had trouble disbelieving lies. Logan wondered briefly what lies the chains had told him that resulted in his traumatized state. But he had more pressing matters. What would get the chains to relinquish their hold?

He gripped Patton’s hand a little tighter and reached for the chain again.

_“You don’t have feelings,” _the voice hissed. _“Robot. No love. Nothing.”_

It hurt, a little. The very hurt it caused disproved the statement.

“Falsehood,” Logan declared confidently. His vision went black once more; when it returned he saw the chain fading away under his fingers.

Patton gasped, Roman hopped off the easy chair and knelt in front of Logan, inspecting the suddenly-gone chain. Logan felt something like pride well up in his chest. He’d done it! He’d solved it. It had only taken a moment, and minimal effort—he was barely winded. The pride was almost instantly swallowed by apprehension—what if he didn’t like what was in the chest? What if it wasn’t what they wanted at all? It would make a semblance of sense to simply wrap up a meaningless chest with as many protections as possible, while leaving the true item that warranted hiding somewhere inconspicuous.

Logan pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and pressed his fingertips to the next chain.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Hozier - In The Woods Somewhere https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJdTRF5d94k
> 
> Tw: Light body horror(?), ANGST, my poor boy

Logan was prepared this time, and made no noise with the momentary blackening of his sight. It was a moment before he heard anything.

_“This isn’t it. This won’t help you get him. You’re wasting precious time.”_

This was their only lead. If what the voice said was correct, how much time would have been wasted on this needlessly? They had already spent nearly—no, it was early morning—they had already spent eight days and 54 minutes on this. What could they have been doing in that time, besides the rather fruitless research Logan had done trying to figure out what was wrong with Virgil the last time they saw him.

As Logan tried to reason with himself, he realized he felt … weird. Somewhat … fuzzy. It was increasingly difficult to gather his own thoughts. He grew tired just thinking about thinking. Why was he touching this chain? His eyes slipped closed as he accepted that he should be sleeping. Resting so that he could have the brainpower to find … to find Virgil.

A hand squeezed his.

Patton? It couldn’t be anyone else. Virgil wasn’t here, and Roman . . . Roman wouldn’t touch him. But why was Patton holding his hand? Thinking of Patton brought back a memory. He remembered how scared Patton was of … of these chains, these chains that … lied. They lied. If it told him that this wasn’t it, then this _was_ it.

“F-falsehood,” he muttered. The chain dissolved.

Logan blinked blearily. The room—too fast—came into focus. Roman was in front of him, closer than he expected. And a sweaty hand was in his—why? He slowly released it. He felt … odd. Not a good odd, either. Logan felt like his head was full of cotton—a sensation that he hated with a passion Logic had no right feeling. He looked behind himself—the hand he’d let go of belonged to Patton, and he rather felt he should have guessed that. As they made eye contact, Patton’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Are you okay?” Patton asked, too-loud. Logan blinked again, then shook his head: not in way of answering, but in an attempt to clear it. It helped marginally, surprisingly.

“How—” Logan’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”

“After you touched the chain, you sorta went limp,” Patton explained to him. “We tried saying your name, but you didn’t even move.”

Logan looked at the chest. A single yellow chain was wrapped around it, twinkling innocently.

“Lo?”

Logan looked back at Patton.

“This is gonna sound silly, but do you know where you are right now?”

It did sound silly, Logan acknowledged, but as he glanced around the room, Logan felt his head clear even more.

“Yes. I am in our living room. I am on the floor, as is Roman, while you are on the couch. I—” he hesitated. “I am not entirely certain as to what we were doing before this point.” It was starting to come back, just everything was so—so—

“Do you want to do a grounding exercise?” Roman asked. “You know, five things you can see, four things you can hear?”

“While that may be beneficial, I don’t believe it will be necessary.” Logan shook his head again and was pleased to feel it clear even more. He’d been—touching the chains. And—

His heart rate picked up. These chains lied. They were protective measures taken by Deceit to keep whatever was in this chest safe. The lie. The most recent lie proved his theory correct.

_This isn’t it._

This was, most assuredly, it.

His strength renewed, Logan spoke again. “I am going to cause the final chain to dissipate.” He silenced the noises of protest with a hand. “I do not know how long I was unresponsive—”

“Three or four minutes,” Roman supplied.

“—But I believe I will be, for lack of a better phrase, ‘out of it’ for a longer length of time,” said Logan. “As I was fully conscious for the dissipation of the first chain, and semi-conscious for the dissolution of the second chain, it is possible to conclude that I will lose consciousness totally while attempting to loosen the final chain.”

Logan made eye contact with both Sides. The room was heavy with the utter seriousness he spoke with.

“I could do it,” offered Patton. Logan shook his head.

“It is already clear that you find these chains emotionally detrimental,” Logan said. “I will be fine.” With that, Logan gathered every semblance of courage he could find in his wearying body and wrapped both hands around the single chain.

This time, when his vision went black, it stayed that way. Logan generally had no trouble with the dark, but this different. It irked him that a small cry escaped his throat. This darkness was truly odd, though—it obscured not only his vision, but his ability to physically feel anything, and if the other Sides were saying anything to him, he couldn’t hear them.

His world flipped unexpectedly, and Logan found himself biting his lip to keep his dinner down. Was he moving? Had he fallen over? There was no way to tell. There was just dark.

Dark. So dark it was utterly fathomless. There was nothing but the dark. No feelings, no presence but the dark. Then, words—still dark, just different. As he read them, they echoed in his ears.

_You don’t think they actually like you, do you?_

He just had to say one word, Logan recalled. He simply had to disprove this, and in order to do that, he had to remember how much Roman and Patton cared about him.

They did care about him, right?

_Of course not. Roman won’t even talk to you. Haven’t you noticed how he’s been avoiding you? And Patton doesn’t trust you, otherwise he would have let you come with him._

The voice, which had been so silky before, was harsh and unforgiving. Logan winced. Did it have to sound so accurate? He’d be lying if he tried to say that he hadn’t thought those exact things, even just today.

_You’re Logic, so they have to keep you around. They don’t want to. You’re annoying. Why do you think they don’t care when you’re left out? Just like the trial. They were glad, even, to not have you there._

“You’re right,” Logan choked out. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until he spoke.

_Shut up. They can’t see you cry, they’ll be embarrassed by you. You’ll make them feel awkward!_

“They’d like a new Logic, wouldn’t they?” whispered Logan. He could see it happening, in this darkness. Fading away. Losing all purpose. Being replaced. The dark filled his mouth when he spoke, tendrils crept into his nostrils. His eyes began to itch and burn, and he suspected it had little to do with the tears streaming down his face. The dark … the dark would help him fade, wouldn’t it?

_They’d love a new Logic. Anything would be better than you._

“They hate me.” More dark seeped into his mouth.

_They hate you._

Logan couldn’t see at all anymore, couldn’t see the depths of darkness, couldn’t see the words. However, he felt a shift. He blinked his burning eyes several times, and for a moment, saw.

Patton, eyes pained, staring straight at him. His hands were gripped around Logan’s, and a tear rolled down his face as Patton whispered a single word.

“Falsehood.”

Another shift. Logan couldn’t see, but the darkness wasn’t so overwhelming, more … flat. Something—something disgustingly gooey—was dripping down his chin from his lips. He tried to swallow—clear his throat. It was then that he realized he couldn’t breathe, was choking on whatever was so gooey and slimy.

The last thing Logan registered before he passed out was arms wrapping around him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Shawn James - Burn The Witch https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNd4sL1OpcE
> 
> Tw: Villain!Deceit, thoughts of death, mild suicidal thoughts (more like lack of objection to dying)

Deceit woke suddenly. Something was wrong. If he wasn’t mistaken, that something was … Logic. Logic had nearly died. There were only two ways that could have happened—something had been illogical that Logan had believed it, or some other being had coaxed Logic into fading. He was inclined to believe the latter. Whatever it was, it had come very close to breaking him.

What could break Logan?

Remus.

_Yes, let’s kill him._

_Shut up, it’s too early for this._

Deceit threw himself out of bed and fairly flew from the room, not even bothering to fix his hair, snapping his clothes on as he ran. Where would Remus be at this hour? He could be anywhere! Remus seemed to rarely sleep in his own room—Deceit had seen him crawl out of cupboards in the morning, come in through the kitchen window (his favorite entrance in the house, so Deceit always kept it unlatched), slide out from under the couch, sing his presence as he danced in from the Imagination. Several times, he’d slunk in quietly from the Subconscious. Half the time, he didn’t turn up all day! There was no way of knowing where he was. What if he was still with Logan—or Logan was still with him? Could Deceit get him away from the dark nightmares Remus must have induced, for Logan to have such a vehement reaction as _death_?

Then Deceit stopped. He reached as far back into his mind as possible—back into that shadowy corner, the one with darkness so tangible it was dripping.

How?

Deceit slowly retraced his steps, stopping outside of the room with yellow light seeping under the doorway. Virgil was still within, still unconscious, he discovered upon opening the door, but the chest—

The chest was gone.

_Finally. Finally._

_Get. It. Back. Hurry!_

Had his protective measures really nearly killed _Logic_? It felt absurd, but something about the defenses had worked far better than he’d intended. Perhaps Logan would really have been so stupid as to have tried to pull the chains off by himself, but Deceit couldn’t believe that.

At least the chains had stopped them. If Logan almost dying was anything to go off of, they hadn’t been able to get it open.

But they were certainly mad at him, he’d bet.

Who knew? Perhaps they’d force his own defenses on him, make him fade. Deceit, surprising even himself, found that he didn’t care all too much. As long as his mission was complete.

_As long as Virgil fades as well._

Deceit looked down at Virgil. His mist still wrapped him like a hazy halo, shimmering slightly. Perhaps it was the odd yellow light, but the Side looked ghostly pale, and was that—were Virgil’s fingers translucent?

They were. He was close—just a few more days, another week at most. His time was limited, as they’d found the chest, but that just meant no more waking Virgil, no matter how much he wanted him to hurt. He hadn’t killed a Side like this in a long time, and, at the time, he’d never wanted to do it again, but this felt good. In a bad way. Sort of?

_Stop. This hurts to think about._

What would they do to him?

He’d almost killed Logan—well, not Deceit personally, but the defenses he’d designed—which would clearly be a cause for retaliation.

They would want to kill him. They probably already did.

Deceit could picture it—Roman, sharpening his sword in the flickering firelight, occasionally sending a dark glare his way. Logan, pulling tight some contrivance of ropes that would make it impossible for Deceit to move. Patton, giving him that simpering smile, while pulling his hands down to the chest, forcing his fingers to one of the chains… .

He felt no fear at that scenario. Before he’d been close, he might’ve been scared.

Deceit had the vague feeling that his lack of objection to death should be worrying, but couldn’t muster the strength to care. He enjoyed his job, but on bad days (and today was definitely shaping up to be one of those), he’d rather be gone than alive. He was so tired of pushing on. After Virgil was gone though? Everything would be right. He’d want to live every day, not just on the good ones. Or the Light Sides would kill him, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

_I don’t want to die._

_Oh, sure, die! Never get to see the fruits of your labors! Yes, you should definitely just give up!_

Were the two parts of him agreeing? That was a first.

It didn’t matter. They either were going to kill him, or they weren't—they were probably going to kill him, though. It was almost heavy, the silence that spoke of end. His end.

They’d never understand.

Let them kill him, then. His mission would be complete.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - Juliet https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYsgDprYmIw
> 
> Tw: LOGAN ANGST, pain, slight body horror, a character spirals, self-deprecating thoughts
> 
> A/N: Hey all! Thanks for being so patient as the updates have been taking longer! If you didn’t know, my dominant hand is sort of screwed up, so writing/typing has been difficult. I will be updating at least once a week, every two weeks if that isn’t feasible. Love you guys!

Logan still couldn’t see.

He had woken four hours and fifty-two minutes after passing out. He had at once been distressed at the darkness, with no way of knowing he’d actually woken. Then he’d heard Roman’s “Thank Zeus!” and Patton’s “Are you awake, Lo?”

He’d been awake for one hour and forty-six minutes now, spending most of that time sitting at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea, his mind running a mental check over his body to ensure he had no injuries.

Logan desperately wanted to shower. Roman or Patton had wiped the black substance from his face as it had dripped from his nose or been coughed up. Neither of them knew what it was. Neither of them knew how to get it out of Logan’s burning eyes. If only for comfort, Logan’s glasses were on his face, and he continually found his hand twitching up to adjust them. It made no sense—the glasses currently served no purpose, why did he insist on wearing them?

Perhaps it was to feel normal. If so, it wasn’t working. Missing his sight, Logan felt utterly helpless.

“Maybe some warm water?”

Logan would have rolled his eyes at Patton’s tentative suggestion, were they not currently obstructed. Did they think he hadn’t tried that? He’d spent the first twenty minutes of being awake in the bathroom, doing everything he could to see. The substance was stubborn, however … Logan could feel it moving. Had it been anyone else, they wouldn’t have even noticed it, but Logan was known for recognizing micro-movements. It was sluggish, moving almost untrackably slowly, but definitely oozing its way to the forefront of his eyes. He estimated that after three hours of open eyes, it would begin to drip out.

He wondered if it would burn less then. He was barely able to bite down undignified whimpers as it was. Maybe the substance coming free would allow tears to escape his tear ducts.

“Does … does it hurt, Logan?”

He must not have hidden that last grimace as well as he thought he had. He somehow knew that Roman was staring at him intently, perhaps had been for hours.

“Of course it hurts, Roman, be sensible,” he snapped. It did hurt, quite a lot, but any unknown substance spontaneously entering one’s eyes was bound to hurt greatly. It seemed, however, that Roman was not going to leave the matter alone.

“On a scale of—”

“I do not currently wish to discuss my pain.”

Silence.

“You made _me_ discuss it.”

Logan sighed as loud as he possibly could. He wanted Roman to know precisely how exasperated he was.

“Seven-point-four-seven-nine-three, if you must know.”

He cringed at the sound of the breath Patton sucked in; the curse Roman murmured. Logan wanted neither of them to continue the discussion, so changed the subject with the first thing that popped into his head.

“Could either of you hear what the enchantment on the chains said?”

“No,” came Roman’s immediate answer. Some shuffling of feet was to be heard. “I could guess on the last one, though.”

Before Logan had time to figure out what that meant, Patton spoke.

“I heard the third one,” Patton said softly, “I touched the chain when I grabbed your hands. I’m sorry.”

Logan wasn’t sure what Patton was apologizing for—helping get rid of the chain after being told not to, or hearing the words that nearly undid him. He was embarrassed, to be honest. He had never deluded himself into believing that the other Sides truly loved him, but he’d foolishly hoped that they had sometimes enjoyed his company, or felt at ease with his presence.

As if his thoughts were being broadcast aloud, Patton interrupted them.

“Remember, the chains lied.”

Did they, though? Much of what Deceit created was fueled by belief. By believing the chains dissipated when a lie was disproved, they could have presented anything as a falsehood, regardless of fact or fiction. For all he knew, Deceit may not even be Deceit, he just appeared as such because they believed that of him! What if he wasn’t Logic? What if Thomas didn’t exist?? Did Thomas even exist?! What if—

“Specs, I need you to get out of your head right now.”

Logan gasped slightly as Roman’s voice cut through the panic. He couldn’t get out of his head, he couldn’t see anything to distract himself with, and it didn’t matter, because none of them were even—

“You look like you’re freaking out. I need you to do those breathing exercises Virgil does.”

_In for four, hold for seven, out for eight,_ his mind instantly supplied. It took several tries before he was able to follow the directions properly.

“Logan, we love you.”

Patton’s words hurt, hurt so much it was almost physical.

“Not only do we love you, we like you.”

Oh.

No they didn’t.

“I love hearing you talk about saving the planet,” Patton continued. “It makes me feel all warm inside. And you always care so much about all of us, you make us planners and schedules and everything!”

Logan felt his heart crack. It wouldn’t do to break down in front of them. It would only annoy them, as well as ruin his reputation. He stood to leave, but Roman’s voice gave him pause.

“I very much enjoy our arguments—er, discussions. I get excited to hear your comments on things, particularly things I make or enjoy. I—” his voice cracked, but Roman tried again, words thick with tears. “I love seeing that spark of life when we design and build things together. That—that light in your eyes, the excitement in your voice—I always feel so happy that I made you happy.” A wet laugh. “I would improvise some poetry, but I haven’t exactly been my wonderful self lately.”

Logan simply … no, there was nothing simple about this. Logan, for some unknown reason, was not able to process what had just been said. The words would not compute. Perhaps from all the energy he was spending attempting to understand, Logan felt somewhat faint. He didn’t realize he was swaying until a stabilizing arm wrapped around his back, then pulled him into a hug.

He melted into the touch, recognizing easily Patton’s soft shirt and strong arms. The hug was … nice. One thought broke through the mist.

“Y-you like me?”

Patton sniffled close to his ear and pulled Logan closer. “Yes, Lo. We like you. We love spending time with you."

“You … like me.”

He was guided somewhere, that place revealed as the living room when Patton gently sat with him on the couch. Behind all the sleepy fuzzies and heartbreak and the screaming in his eyes, something itched. Weren’t they supposed to be doing something?

One thought at a time, he supposed.

“You … you like me?”

Patton’s chest stuttered against his head. “Of course. I like you. Roman likes you. V-Virgil likes you.”

“You l-like me.”

“Sleep, Prince-ipal. We truly love you.”

A little burst of happiness spread from his chest to his fingertips, doing something to help close the metaphorical gaping wounds on his metaphorical heart. Roman had never called him prince.

Pushing away all of the conflicting feelings and the burning pain, not to mention the ache to figure out what they weren’t doing, what question they weren’t answering, Logan snuggled closer to Patton and let his mind turn off.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Conan Gray - I Know A Place (Cavetown cover) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e91HsvQ0bmM
> 
> Tw: description of anxiety attack

“He thought we don’t love him,” Patton sniffed, a shocked expression on his face and tears filling his eyes. “He—he thought—”

Roman wasn’t sure what to do—he was upset as well by Logan’s admission, but he didn’t know how to comfort Patton. He couldn’t touch him; how else did one make another feel better? Hugs were Patton’s default, but that was out of the question. What could he do? Patton was crying openly now, holding Logan tighter. Worthless. Couldn’t even comfort one of his best friends. Couldn’t even fight off nightmares.

He needed out.

Roman waved a hand and with some effort, re-conjured the blankets he’d conjured and vanished for Patton earlier. It felt like spiders were crawling up the inside of his spine, the nerves screaming at him to run—and not anywhere in particular or to get away from anything, just to run.

“I’m going to the Imagination,” he blurted out, then turned and bolted away.

-

It was raining in the Imagination today.

Roman wanted it to rain, of course. If he didn’t want it to, it would stop immediately.

The rain felt refreshing. Roman could almost imagine it washing his scars off.

The simple commoner’s clothes he was dressed in did nothing to stop him from getting soaked. He could conjure a cloak. He could even teleport to the castle and replace these threadbare weeds with his princely uniform. He hadn’t properly worn it since those hellish twenty-four hours. Sure, he’d put it on once or twice for an adventure, but it had always felt wrong. Too pompous, maybe. Too much grandeur for one Side. That’s what he told himself, at least(he pretended he couldn’t still smell blood when he wore it).

“Sirrah! Will not you pay for that?!”

Roman blinked. His dissociated wandering had carried him to a market, all the stands carefully covered with tarps to protect the goods from the downpour. In Roman’s hand was an orange—likely very expensive, given that they not only didn’t grow in this area of the Imagination, and were also out of season.

Roman checked his pockets and—nothing. Except … a button? Likely enchanted. The Imagination wanted to play a game. It had been too long since he’d taken on a quest.

He weighed his options. He could pocket the orange and run, get himself arrested, then meet a mysterious old man in jail who would explain the button Aladdin-style. Or, he could put down the orange and walk into the slightly shimmering tavern, where he would pick up a rumor from the barkeep or be sent on a mission by a dark stranger in the corner.

Roman carefully placed the orange down, then elected to ignore both options as he turned and walked out of town.

An orphan ran into his path, but he ignored it. A wild horse kicked down a fence, but he didn’t notice. A trumpet sounded a visit from royalty, but he didn’t hear. A fox weaved between his legs on the outskirts of town, then ran to the edge of the forest and waited. Roman didn’t follow, instead shaking his head and continuing to walk aimlessly. Soon he broke into a run, needing to burn off this energy that came from who knew where.

Eventually, he slowed, letting his hands trail in the foliage around his path. A weeping willow wrapped its leaves around his fingers gently, and through it Roman could feel the question the Imagination was asking.

_Why won’t you play, Roman?_

“I’m not in the mood,” Roman murmured. He reached up into the tree, let it weave around his body and pull him into the air.

_What is wrong?_

“Too many things.”

The Imagination seemed to rumble; the branches tightened slightly.

“I wish it had been me, instead of Logan,” Roman confessed quietly. “He almost died, all because he couldn’t convince himself that we love him. How could we mess that up so badly? Logan can’t die. We love him. He’s too good.”

_Don’t fade, Roman._

Roman patted the trunk reassuringly. “I don’t think I want to, most of the time. I’d just rather it be me than Lo.”

Now fully in the air, Roman was passed from one tree to another, then that one passed him on, and so forth. He let the trees carry him where they wished. He trusted the Imagination. His eyes slipped closed, and he let the boughs take his weight fully. After what felt like maybe twenty minutes of not thinking, he felt the branches lower and gently slide him onto the grass.

Again, Roman didn’t move, letting the thick grass cushion his head and the earthy smell fill his nostrils. After a few moments, a branch poked him hesitantly, then several wrapped around him and carefully set him on his feet. He begrudgingly opened his eyes.

The trees had carried him to the main exit of the Imagination (though, when not too tired, Roman could create an exit/entrance anywhere).

_Go_, the trees whispered with one voice. _Save him, Prince Roman. Save the day._

He hadn’t been doing much of that lately, and probably wouldn’t do it, anyway. But he’d achieved what he’d come here to do—get rid of the strange compulsion to run, walk off the energy.

He could return. He needed to be there, if only to provide moral support.

Perhaps Logan was awake now. Perhaps it was time to open the chest.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - Irrational https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0VgToNenys
> 
> Tw: None that I know of! Let me know if you think there should be any

At first, Patton had been relieved that, while Logan slept, the black gooey stuff had begun to leak out of his eyes. Then he’d become bored as it leaked out unimaginably slowly. Logan had been asleep for three hours, and still there was barely a drop of blackness coming from the corner of his left eye.

Even though it had been three hours, Patton still held Logan to his chest, laying on the couch. His arms were numb, but he couldn’t bear to let go. It was the only thing keeping him awake, anyhow, and he very much did not want to sleep. Last time he’d slept had been in that longer-than-long hallway, and… .

He’d woken coughing up black goo.

The rational part of him (which sounded a bit like Logan) reminded him that he hadn’t slept per se, he’d passed out after touching one of the chains. However, Patton was more inclined to trust his instincts, and his instincts screamed danger. Not sleeping had kept him alive thus far, so he could deal with being tired, especially since he was keeping an eye on Logan.

It didn’t matter that he’d been crying almost non-stop for the past thirty-six hours. Being at home had changed nothing—had possibly made it worse.

He hadn’t felt this bad since Thomas’s junior year of college.

“Hey, uh, Pat?”

Patton jerked up. Had he been falling asleep? He had to stay awake! Roman was in front of him, looking uneasy as his hands fiddled with the sleeves of his long-sleeved pajama shirt. His hair was ruffled but he was clearly calmer than he had been a few hours previous.

“Y-yeah, Roman?”

Roman shuffled his feet. “Would you mind if I put a movie on?” he ventured.

Patton shifted, trying to not wake Logan. Luckily, Logan only huffed and snuggled closer to his chest. “Of course! Do you wanna come cuddle with us?”

Roman blanched. “No—no thank you, padre.”

Patton tried not to feel too offended. It was okay for the kiddos to not want hugs. It just hurt for them to look so disgusted at the idea. Apparently it showed on his face, because Roman’s look of distaste softened into something more contrite.

“I’m sorry, Patton. Physical contact has been making me feel rather icky as of late.”

Oh. Now that he thought back, Roman had been avoiding them for some time. Had his hugs been hurting Roman? Shouldn’t he have noticed already?

Patton blinked, and Roman was curled up on the floor in front of him, pillows made into a nest of sorts. The chest, unopened, had been moved to the armchair. Aladdin had just begun.

“I got some Cheez-Its. Do you want some?” Roman held up the box of cheese crackers, and Patton reached over Logan for a handful. Had he just fallen asleep?

He decided not to think about it. “I love Aladdin,” he said sleepily. Roman chuckled, and Patton wanted so badly to just reach over and ruffle his hair. He respected Roman’s request for space, though.

His eyelids grew heavy, and fear clutched at his heart.

“R-Ro, I don’t want to sleep,” he sniffed pitifully.

The movie paused right as Aladdin jumped from a window. Roman’s eyes met his.

“What do you mean, Pat?”

A tear slipped down Patton’s face. “I-I’m scared,” he admitted. “Of the darkness. I keep—the chains—I just—”

Patton couldn’t put it into words. He could only see the darkness, the black words, the feeling of it choking him, dragging him further and further down to the end, to death, to nothing.

A sob tore from his throat and he remembered the taste of nothingness, musty and choking and end end end—

He hugged Logan tighter, barely noticing the way the Side in his arms shifted.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said over and over. His eyes shot open—when had he closed them?—at a comforting smell. Roman stood before him, a mug of hot chocolate in his hands, a small smile on his face.

Immediately Patton calmed, reaching out with grabby hands for the mug. He brushed Roman’s fingers while taking it and froze, but Roman only sucked in a small gasp as his smile became slightly forced.

“’M sorry,” Patton mumbled. Roman waved his hand.

“It’s quite all right. Logan, are you awake?”

Logan did nothing but sigh softly. Roman nodded. “Shall we continue the movie?”

Patton nodded and sipped the hot drink. An underlying spiciness surprised him, but it was not unwelcome. Anything to keep him awake.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: half alive - BREAKFAST https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpvPZotXofQ
> 
> Tw: Body/eye horror, yes we’re talking about Lo’s eyes, pain

**T̸̹̜̼̟̠̂̅͒ḩ̴̙̪͔̣̮̐͊̏͘͜͜e̵̢̗̝͆̈̓̓̽͗͛̚͜r̶̟͕̦̬͓͗e̷̠̓̏̿̾͒̚͝͠͝ ̷̙̤̰̲̣͈̪̿̂̄̌͐̚͘ͅī̶̧̛̙̄͗̾̀̄́͑̕ṡ̶̠̩̀ ̷̠̑̑̏͘ṋ̷̨̫̠͉͒̅̾̏̇̕ō̶̢̹͓̑͆͂̉̚ͅ ̷̬̪̭́̇̆̋͋̋͗͠d̴̲͆͝ą̴͎̥̟͌̓̐r̸͕̤̖̗̼̰͉̮̆̈́͋̒ķ̸̧͇̦̜̜̻͚͆̆̏̿̓̍̈́͊ͅn̴͔̘̝̻̫̼̻̂̑́͒͆͊̾̇͠e̴͓͎͕̍̀́̈́͘s̵̢̯ṣ̶̢̡̪͇̬͋̄̈́͆̃̒͠ ̷̡̛̳̻͔̪͉͔͇̱̄̾͗̅̓̆͊͝ḃ̷̢̖̯̦̠̙̗͕̔̉̿͝u̶̩̩͖̩̳͔͚̺͚̠͐̓̓̆͂͠͝t̵̠͔͇̬̰̖͒ ̴̧̻̦̻̑͐̔̅̈́̇ị̶̧̬͕̪̈́͝g̸͕̹̪͇̲̜͓̓̆͝͠n̸̼̅͋̚͜͝ơ̴̩̝͖͙͚̟͖̑͌͆̿̐̿̃̕͜r̷̲̣̮̪͔̘͕͌̑͗̆ͅą̷̐̈́̂̅̈́̐͘n̴̢̟̱̍̑̈͂̕c̵̨̛̛͈̣̜͖͚̹̾̏͑̃ͅe̶̪̜͇̤̫̪̋̃̅͂͋,̸͓̈́͋͊̕̚͜ ̸̡̤̜̰̺̑̎ī̷̢̺̯͚͖̙̳͂̐͗͝n̶͍̭͇̉͗̌̋̈́̂̋͌ͅ ̴̨̩̋͑̓̓͛̅̏̽ͅw̵̛̖̪̬̲̏̆͗͐̋͝h̸̡͉̟̯̞̭̠̺̓î̸̥̈́ç̴͔͎̥͂͒̀̎̀h̷͈̖͇̤̳̗͎̦͝͠ ̵̜̦̗̫̞̻̩̠͂̅̓̆̓̀͗͜͝t̶̨̝̺͖͉͛̅̋͊͊̿͋ḩ̶̧̬͈̻͇͙̭͇̜͗̍̉̎ō̸͚̊̽̃̏̌̏̕ư̸̩̂̑͗̇̑̕͝ ̷̤̮̞͓̩̭̫̯͎͆͌̊̑͊̂̽̔̋ä̵̘̭̦́̑̓̌̂̀̔͠r̶̡̛̜͉̦͖̃͘ͅt̴̡̞͍̩̝̣̦̼̽̊̈͋͑̓̈́͝͝ ̶̨̫̱̹͍̘̘̦̮̓̂̋̿͝m̶͎͉̻̊̍́̽̓͊͒͝o̸̢̻̳̣̹̭̓ŗ̴͒̾̐̏̕ȩ̸̛̳̬̩̘͈̝̲̭̅́ ̷̡̡̘̃͐̆͒̈́͂p̵̢͓̭͕̬͂̄͋͠u̵̲͇̻̙͐̽͊z̷̮̰͙͔͕̼̆͊͘̕z̴̧͍͍̰͇̉͗͂̅l̷̳̔̏͌̈́͑̆̍̒̕͝è̷͍̟̻͕͍̯̤̩͇̅͊̃̍͛̓̔̆ḑ̴̖̠͙̺̹̅̿̆̉́͝ ̸̛̫̗͍͕̣̜̆̇̓͌̍͊͐̒͌t̸̹͐h̸̩̘͈̟̞̎͠a̶̩̫͉͑n̴̦͍̤̣͕̿̔̇̈́͂̑̑͘ ̷͕̤̭̰͉͎̮̱͎̻̉͌̏̇̽̚͝t̷̨̥̖̬̯̩͚̜̓̄̏͝h̸̨̼͈͙̼̳̪̳͆ě̷͙̘̦̾̋͜͜ ̴̜̈̎̉͋̀͘͠Ẹ̶̢̎̕͘g̷̨̨̨͙̺͈͍̹ỷ̶̺͎̝̳̘̘̽̾̌̈͘͠͝p̴̞͚̝̼͐̏̾̚͘t̵̼̱̻͓͍̦͔̒̄ȉ̵͖̯͕̲͑̋͋̚a̴͉̭͊̾̽̍͋̿̉͆̏̚ṋ̷̳̫̼͖̈́̓̂͝ͅs̷̡̮̪̬͗͒̈̓̐̓ ̶̥̲̪̯̝͛̽̎͑̓̍̽͝͝ǐ̷̛̮͖̭͓̫̟̥̑̃̀̂n̴͓̜͓͚̭̈̎̏ ̵̢̯̖̝͖̤̼͇͕̍t̵̛͉̼̠̦͈͉͚̼̍͂̅̐̓͂̍h̷͎͚̹͌͛͌ḛ̵̞͎͖͈̿̈͒̄͆̈́̈́̈̈́͜͜ͅi̸͙̟̳͒̌̉̉̌̈́̓͌̒͆r̴͍͍͉̠̖͍̾̑̿ͅ ̵̗̈̂f̷̨͎̝͉͍̝͈̪͉̈́͛̌ō̶̮g̸͎̫̖̝̠͔͒͂͗͐̃͂ **

-

The first thing Logan noticed when he woke was how much his eyes hurt. The pain was overwhelming, and he found himself moaning as he burrowed deeper into whatever was around him. His face felt gross and and sticky and it hurt so much.

“You awake, Logan?”

Logan grimaced, but didn’t respond. He desperately wished he could slip back into the painlessness of sleep.

“Lo?”

“Why does i’ hur’ so much?” he asked pitifully. Clearly, his brain-to-mouth filter was not functioning. He swallowed; speaking had let him know just how sore his throat was.

“Gosh, I’m sorry Lo,” the voice said. Patton, Logan decided. In fact, Logan could feel the rumble when he spoke. He was likely laying against Patton. Definitely laying against Patton, he mentally corrected, as he realized there were arms around him.

“Do you want me to let go of you so I can get you some water?”

Logan nodded. At first, for some reason, he wanted Patton to stay. It was likely for warmth, he decided, ignoring the fact that there were no less than four blankets draped over him.

He allowed someone—Patton—to sit him up, then waited to move until the Side sat next to him and gently pushed a glass of water into his hands. Logan sipped, letting wakefulness seep back into his being. For the first time since falling asleep, Logan opened his eyes.

And saw nothing.

He sighed.

“It’s looking better,” Patton tried. “Some has dripped out. That’s good, right?”

“I don’t know,” Logan answered tiredly. “I don’t know anything about this. Is it Deceit’s magic? Is my belief that it has incapacitated me what makes it fact? Is it a scientific concoction? I don’t know. I can only hope it exits my eyes as painfully as possible.”

Silence.

“Where’s Roman?” It was a feeble attempt at changing the subject of the conversation, Logan knew, but he really was curious.

“He’s asleep on the floor right next to your feet.”

Logan immediately drew his feet up onto the couch. Roman … Roman didn’t want to be touched, right? Was he remembering that correctly? Of course he was, he was Logic.

“Do you want me to put on some music?”

Logan gripped the couch, barely swallowing the pained whimper that threatened to make itself heard. “A—erm, a documentary, if you will. I would like something to focus on.”

A few moments later, a calming woman’s voice emanated from the TV. She was talking about the familial habits of baboons, and as Logan listened, he absentmindedly pulled at the substance dripping from the corner of his left eye. It was rubber-like in consistency—something unsurprising, as he’d already touched that which was in his eyes and discovered the same—and as he pulled, it stretched. He pulled harder, further, and—

Was it coming loose? It was, it—

Logan screamed, actually screamed as the pain ramped up unexpectedly. It burned, it burned mercilessly, his eye, it burned his eye, it was going to kill him—

“Logan, let go!”

He wanted to, he wanted to so very much, but his numb fingers couldn’t let go. They were stuck, and it _hurt_, and all he’d ever known was pain and it was so, _so bad_—

“Patton, _move_.”

There was a strange _shring! s_ound,and suddenly his fingers weren’t stuck to his eye, and this time as Logan screamed, it held a note of relief. It was still bad, so _so_ bad, but the throbbing got quieter and the pain was so much better.

_“Curiously, the baby does not want anything to do with his older brother.”_

Something pulled at his gooey hand, hard enough that it jerked Logan to his feet, then there were hands holding his arm and pulling, and his hand was free of the substance.

“Lo, we’re gonna flush out your eye, okay?”

Logan nodded, his head clearing a bit from the fuzzy void of pain. Cool water splashed into his eye and he failed to hold in a hiss of pain.

He blinked, then blinked again and again, and then he could _see_. Only a little, and it was blurry and flat, but it was seeing.

“Patton, I—I can see!” Logan blinked away the blur, smiling despite the pain.

“Yay! Some of it’s coming away, but there’s still a lot of gunk in there. Did you get it off your sword, Ro?”

“Yes, just a bit of conjured fire did it,” Roman’s reply came. Logan turned in the direction of his voice and saw a blurry white figure.

“Well, we can’t exactly burn it out of his eyes… .”

Logan rubbed at his eye, then blinked a few more times. The room seemed almost two-dimensional, and his peripheral was non-existent. He felt as if he was wearing a blindfold that a small hole had been cut in, falling just over his left eye. His vision caught on the flat-looking chest on the living room floor.

“As I can now see,” Logan said, his eye watering, “perhaps we should open the chest.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Brothers Bright - Blood On My Name https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOSU_Pw7vO4
> 
> Tw: None that I know of (let me know of anything that should be warned)

**J̠̯͘o̺̯v̵̘͇e̢̦͙͙̯̦͉ ̘̩͉͍̳͙k̵̜n̪͈͞o̖̟͓̘̩͕͠w̬͍̣̖̼͡s,̥̼ͅ ͓͓bu͙̟͘t̝̣̦ ̯̱̜̝w̱͙̠̺̤h̸̠̭̣̟o͔͚͔?̸  
̤̗̙̦L̥i̧͈̮p̫̞s͓̲̦,̸ ̙̙̤̺̠d͇o̴͇̱ ̮̥͍n̦̗̟̠͡o̵̘͖̠t͉͓̩̳͓͞ ͍͍̪̬̖ͅm͓̥͇̪̙͎͘o͏̯̼v̳e͖̟̻̺;̴͚̣  
̼͚͜N̸̮̘͕̥̺̮̗o̷̯̥ ̡̪m̩̭an͟ ̛m̰̠̼͈̹ͅu̯̯s̡̞̹͔̰̤̰̗t҉̪ ̡͈͓͖͖͓k͍͉̰no̴̩̯̠w͚̰͓.͓̦̘͕**

-

Patton had done everything he could think of to keep himself awake. Now he was eating all the candy he needed, popping in another jawbreaker every five minutes or so. The chest had to be opened before he could sleep. It had to. Luckily for him, they were about to do so.

It had taken longer to prep than anyone had guessed. First, Logan had wanted to shower. Then Roman had insisted on cooking a meal for the three of them—Patton thought this was probably procrastination on his part. Soon, though, Logan was back, the goo looking almost like black tears, and Roman had made spaghetti. Patton managed a few bites, and Logan didn’t even try, but Roman didn’t notice as he didn’t eat either.

Now, sucking on one of those jawbreakers, Patton decided to take initiative. They’d all been staring at the chest for at least three minutes. Every thirty seconds or so, Roman would make a self-aborted movement toward it. Patton gathered all the courage he could find and reached out, scrunching his eyes shut as he quickly yanked it open.

Nothing happened. It was sort of anti-climatic, to just see a stack of papers. Sure, Logan had gasped, but that was Logan. Logan loved papers.

Since it was his hand in the chest, Patton picked up some of the papers, scooted closer, and began to read.

-

Roman watched Patton’s eyes slowly move as he read. He was fairly content with not reading it, but Logan, apparently, was not.

“Patton, kindly recall that I can see now? Those look like legal papers, please let me read them.”

Patton was either ignoring Logan or was so wrapped up in whatever he was reading that he didn’t hear him. If Roman hadn’t been able to see his eyes, he’d be tempted to claim Patton was asleep. The Side looked absolutely spent.

“Please, Patton. I _must_ see those.”

Patton made a strange noise, and Roman shifted his gaze back to his eyes. Patton was … crying? Was there something hopeless on the papers? Would they not be able to save Virgil?

Roman stood to comfort, unsure as to what he intended to do. He half expected Patton to fall over, asleep before he hit the ground. However, Patton just grew more agitated as he flipped faster through the papers.

“No, no, no no no,” Patton whispered. Roman felt his own dread skyrocket. What could he have seen? What was so bad it made Patton go whiter than milk?

Apparently, he was about to find out. Patton shoved the papers into his arms and choked out, “I have to g-go,” before making a break for the staircase.

Roman ignored Logan’s persistent pleas and began to read.

-

“Roman, let me see them. I am the most likely to understand what they mean. I can find loopholes easier than either of you!”

Unsurprisingly, Roman didn’t answer. Just like Patton, Roman had become so wrapped up in the legal-looking document he likely had not even heard Logan.

“Please, Roman. I just want to help.”

Roman did nothing but flip to the next page in his hand. Logan couldn’t see much, but he had seen Patton’s face grow paler than was strictly normal or advised. Now Roman’s face was doing the same.

“Let me see,” Logan insisted—no, begged. He was the only one capable of reading whatever it was without any biases. Why wouldn’t they give it to him?

Roman choked and Logan saw tears in his eyes. Now Logan stood, his head spinning with pain, intent on forcibly removing the pages from Roman’s white-knuckled hands. Predictably, Roman evaded him, watery eyes never leaving the papers.

Logan sank to the couch, needing a break from such a small exercise as standing. Roman continued reading, much longer than Patton had, but eventually dropped all the papers with a small cry and ran. Logan dropped to the floor and scrambled to shuffle the loose sheafs back into order.

The dread that had been coiling in the pit of his stomach reared its head with a nasty roar as Logan finally held the stack, letting his moderately functional eye fall on the first page.

_~The Prosecution of Virgil Anxiety Sanders~_


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Halsey - Control https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so8V5dAli-Q
> 
> Tw: VERY unsympathetic Side, violence
> 
> A/N: So EVERYTHING in this chapter is set in the past. The last portion of it actually takes place just before chapter 24 I believe, but the rest of it takes place before the story began. This chapter was one of the first ones I planned. Enjoy!

-

**Y͔̟̤̹o̙̖̗̤u̜̙̱̞͓̣̜͘ ̝̗͙̻̝̥ͅw̡̞r̰̖ơ͈̖͕͙̺ng̪͍̗̞̺ ̩͍̟͎̗͈ͅm҉̪̠̙̤͈͕ͅe̖͙̘̬̦,̤͖̰̞ ̮͘an̘͔d̯̰̳̙̟ t̯̪̼͓̮͝h̫̖̫̟͘e͉ ̷͇͍̻w͈̱̭o̜r̖̖̘̳̖̦l͟ḓ̪̮̱ͅ ͈̙͢s͔h̵̰͙͎̦̭a͡l̢̥̰̱l̜͖̤̙͉̜ ̢͉̘̦̜̹̯͔kn̷̯̰̻̘̗͕͙o͖͎͓͠w̠͚̼̳̘̼ ̺̘i̶͚ͅt:̟̥̻̖͈̩ͅ ̞  
̟̯ṯ̶h̗̪̬͎o̡̞u͏̱͓̜gh̜̣̖̺͉͢ ̸͍̰̦͙y̙̥͎̻̻ͅo͘u͍̭̺̖͕̺̗ ̙̬̰̜̯̤h̪̤̳̩͕͇a̷̠͔̯͕̖̣͙v̹̻̥̪͔̥̕ę͎ ͞p̱̣̣̯u̗̱̗̼̳͙̖t̤̪͙̕ me ̭͎i̟̠n̰͖̯͖͘ ͏̺̙͙̥d̲̖a̗r҉͇̜͖̦k͍͉̝͠n͍̝͖̺e͕̞̣͕̲͓s̼s҉̫̝̼̩̼̥,̯̼ ̸̮y̰̥e̸̩̙̹t̶̗̲̹̙̱ ̺̱͢h̘̹̱͍̞̭ͅa͕͉̺͙̫̯̻͞ve̳̼͟ ̖̝Į͇ ͇͍̥͇̝t̨h̛̤̰̜e̲̩̯̯̺̥̟ ͔̖̺͔̙̺̰͝b̳̦͖̪͈̺͢eṉ̟̞̥͎̺̖e̮͉f̛̦i̟͕̻͕̙̲t̙̬̞͜ ̡̦̱͙̤͉̫of̸̹̳͉͕ ̝͍̰͙̦̲͢ͅm̥̱͖̣̱͙͖y̪̱̯ ͉̫͖͖s̺̣͉̙̦̼͟ͅe̝̲ṇ̬̹s҉͖̞͚̻̗e̵̤̙̥͎s͔͍͢.̨͙̤ ̥I͙͉ ͙̺̜̙̣̫͎̕d̸͉̖͓o͇̣̭u̩̳̘̮̬̥͡bṯ̮̺͓͈ ̡͎͉̹͎̺n̫͔̣̩̝̭ͅo̻̦͢t̶͇ ̣̟̮͍͎b͓u̮̯͔ͅt̮ ̪̠̦̟ṯo ̖̫͔͕͙͡d̫̥̯̳͠o̪͉͇̱̜͉͡ ̛͈ṃ̱͍̮̤y̵̖s̴̫̳̲͙e̤͇̪͉̯̪͠l҉̘̤͚̘ͅf͞ ͚͉͙m̜͙̖̖̼͎u҉̻͔̝͚̻̰c҉h͚̤̫̜̣̼ ̯͍̠̮̰͠r̻̙i̲̬͉̭̯̭̦g̠̺͕̙̗h̼̞̭̪̮̖t̟ͅ,̢̯̜̭ ̘̙͔͉̼͓ͅo͏r͍͍͕͠ ͏͕y͎̬̪o̠͎̥̮̫͖͔͜u̩͜ ͏͎̤̠m̰̳̞̼͉̖͖u̳̪͚̻̘͜ͅch̡̜̺̤͙̼̝ s̱̭̱͡ͅḩam̗͖̳̰͔͢ḛ̥̼̗͓.**

-

The house was quiet. Too quiet. That probably wasn’t a good thing.

Dee had woken at some point. He’d slowly returned to consciousness, allowing his mind to surface from the fog of whatever dreams he’d been having. His room was too dark to fully come into focus, but he could see the spider-webbing cracks in the wall across from his bed, mere feet away. He let his eyes trace the lines, then stretched out as much as his too-small bed would allow. He wondered vaguely if it was the silence that had woken him, or some noise breaking the eeriness of the oppressive quiet.

Then his door creaked open, and Dee knew he’d been woken by a sound.

A shadow slipped into the tiny room. Dee shot straight up, something that might have been hope leaping to his throat.

Remus jumped back skittishly, but Dee beckoned him forward to sit on the twin-sized bed. He couldn’t scare Remus away, he might not come back for days, and Dee did not have time for that. “Where are the others?” whispered Dee.

The look … Remus’s face was all wrong, and his eyes made contact for a millisecond before he moved closer. Fear. Remus—Remus was never afraid. “I can’t find them.”

The hope became a stone in his throat, which sank to the bottom of his stomach. “They left?” he choked out. “Without us? Is _he_ awake?”

Remus didn’t speak. Dee took him by the shoulders, noting Remus’s shaking hands, his bouncing knee, how quickly his chest rose and fell. Those were more telling than anything that something was wrong, and Dee felt terror envelop his mind.

“Remus, is he awake?”

A tight laugh. “Why do you think I was looking for everyone?”

Deceit shoved Remus off the bed. Now he could feel the tension in the house, saturating the quiet darkness. “Get out,” he spat. “You know what will happen if he sees you. Go!”

Remus skittered out. Dee heard his pattering footsteps dash down the hall, then heard the creak of the door that lead to the Imagination.

Then there was a different shadow gracing Deceit’s doorway. Dee felt himself start to shake with the mind-numbing fear, then shapeshift nervously, scales beginning to push out of his skin. Then the shadow stepped closer. Yelling, a flash of red, and Dee pretended he knew nothing more.

-

If Deceit willed it, the mirror showed him what he wished to see. Clear skin. Matching eyes. A cocky smile. Sometimes, though, the reflection rippled, showing the reality. The damage that had been done.

As soon as Anxiety had mentioned his disgust for shapeshifting, Dee had been careful to not shift around him. However, it had become a habit as of late to shift into a snake when in a threatening situation—small, quick, easy to slip away from the danger. He was normally quite good at repressing the impulse around the others, but something—whether it was exhaustion, the shock of abandonment, or Remus’s infectious fear—kicked it in.

And now he was stuck between forms, because Anxiety had seen him. Anxiety had made sure he’d never want to shift again.

Dee didn’t know if he’d stay this way forever or not. It didn’t hurt exactly—not anymore, four days after the incident—but itched in a funny way, like the scales on the left side of his face and scattered across his body (most heavily on his joints) hadn’t completely pushed through his skin.

He had to abandon his thoughts, though, as a shriek permeated the air. Remus had let himself get caught.

Dee left his cramped room and crept into the living room, ignoring the pounding of blood in his ears. Remus was pressed up against a wall, Anxiety looming over him, holding what appeared to be glowing black length of chain.

“Leave him alone!” The words burst from Dee’s mouth before he could swallow them. He didn’t back down, though—if there was anything Deceit was, it was stubborn.

Anxiety ignored him. “I won’t let you hurt Thomas anymore!” he yelled, voice gratingly transfigured. “He almost jumped into the street this morning! You tried to kill him!”

“Anx, please!” Dee tried the nickname he’d heard some of the others use to get on Anxiety’s good side—if he had one. Anxiety turned to him. Dee was momentarily distracted by the black tear tracks running the make-up under Anxiety’s wild eyes, but quickly forgot it in an effort to telepathically communicate with Remus. He tried to scream _get out of here! _with his now mismatched eyes, but Remus didn’t notice, fixated on his scales. Dee rubbed that side of his face self-consciously.

“Dee,” Anxiety said, one eye twitching, “go back to your room. This is for Thomas’s own good.”  
“You can't—”

“Do as you’re told, _Deceit_.” The word dripped with disgust, and Dee felt himself shrivel up inside. He’d never hated his own function until Anxiety came along.

“Just please,” he begged, any shreds of dignity he still had now thrown out the window. “Don’t hurt him. It hurts Thomas when you hurt us.” His stalling for time wasn’t going to work if Remus didn’t _move_.

“Didn’t you hear me?!” Anxiety was losing whatever composure he’d had, his black glow making him appear blurred around the edges. “Thomas almost died! Now go to your room before I decide to kill this useless thing instead!”

A sinking feeling of guilty despair crashed into Dee as he ran to his room, pretending he couldn’t hear Remus’s desperate scream of his name.

-

Deceit woke with a start. It was too early to be alive, but Thomas was up, lying to himself about something (if the past was anything to judge by, he was likely convinced that his house had been broken into).

The lights came on with a snap of his fingers, giving him light to see well enough to pull his gloves on. The full-size mirror on the wall reflected him as he sat on the edge of his bed, somehow incredibly lucid. He glanced at himself as he stood, taking his hat from a hook. For a moment, Deceit stared at himself.

He’d dreamed of the past.

Deceit ruled Anxiety. Virgil now lived in fear—exactly what Deceit wanted.

“Who’s in control now?” he asked the mirror. His reflection didn’t respond.

It was time.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog - Everything You Ever https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Pk5LSZ9EyI
> 
> Tw: Passing eye horror (nothing new), mentions of an unsympathetic Side

**I̦̼n͇͎͇̦̟͘ ̥n҉̣̪̻̗a̦͉t͈͉̝̱̣͠u͍̹̩̳̼͕̪r̲͙̬e̴̩̱ ͉͇̲͍t̨͙̖̲͚̟̦̗h͈̮̮er̳̬͟e͖͓̻ͅ'͎̥̲̣s̰̹̼̣̪̝͎ ͓̥n̥͈͈̳̞̖͇o̼̰̳̯̻ͅ ̵͎̜͔̼b͉̼̘͙̖̣l̨͍̫̝̯̮e͇̤̻̲ͅm̙͚͖̳̻̞̖͝i̴͙̟̘̣s̻̟͎͠h̨̤̟̫̺͇͕ ̗͚͖͙̬b͝u҉t̜͟ ̝̮̥̜͠ṱ̻̠̗̜ͅh̷̲̗e̖̭̞̭ m̲̫͘i̷̙̳͚̱͍n̥̮̗d̰̝;̙̭̜͙̻̮̭̕  
̬͕̮̦͎̻͉N͏̹̰o҉̲̲ͅn̛͍͇͇e ̧͖̖̺c̳͎̠̟̤̜̪a̵̝̺̣ͅṉ͙̮̦̖̠͢ ̺͍͉͚b͙͉͈̜e ̠͙͎̣c͙̜a͏͔͖̬ḽl̬̭͢'̸̦̯d͙̩̩͕͎ ͚̺͎͕̱͟d̯̳̘͓e̱̖̳̫͘f̟̣̹͎̙o̦͝r̨̟̠m̱'d̡͈̩̺̯̘ͅ ̦͈͚̪̝̦͡ḅ͉͔̦̤͡u̲̞͙̬̯̺͢t̖͈ ͚̥t͙̭̰͓̥h̝̣̻̤e̡̺͙ ̶̥͓̯ṳ̤̳ͅn̺̺̘͔̥k͕̹̺̺͖̞i̫͡n̦͙̖d͚̯̰͢:̜̹̯͚  
̙̯͇V̢̰͎̣͙̮̙̯i͉̞̟̺̗͈͎r̮̠̻͚̥t̠͕̫͈̝u̬̮̟̙̭̟e̫̗͕͙̻̫̺ ̲͖̪̣͔i̘͡s̩ ̖b̰̞̲ͅe̳̲̜a͙͇͙̞̪̜̯u͔̥̻̩̻͇͢ty̦̱͈̕,̖͘ ̭̦͝b̨̯̟̣̙͍̮ͅu̴̘̘͇̻t̰̳̥̰̠͈̳ ̫̘ṯ̷̟̘̺h̥̗̬̘e̦̱̺̹̝ ̪͚͍̗̬b̹̭̣̭̬͚͖͞e͙͝a̰̦͙̰̞͉̩u̧̬t͖͎͔̤̥̞̦͞e͢o̶͍ͅu̞͕̩͢s̮̭̺ ̭͔e̯̲͕̗̱͕̭v̼͕̘͞i͔l  
̝͍͎͞A̸̝͍͉͚r̗͚e̬̞̮͍ ͏̗̣̟̠̗e̖̠m̢p̫̖̝̞t̯̝̬͔̞͚y̱ ̲̟̼̻̜̫ͅt͍͍̠̺ͅr̥̝͟u̯̯̯̳n̵͕͇k̜̟̖̦͕̻̩s̼͈ ̢̱͖̟͍o̼̖̳'͕̹̬̪er̝f͖̠̩̙l̼o͏̠̣̭ưr̢į͚͍̲ͅs̳ͅh̟͖̗͉̤̞'҉͔͇̗͙̙̲d͕͕̤̠̗͟ ͇b̖̥̗̺y̬̞̥ ̙̠̟t̤͕̬̤͟h̫̮̱͓̠e̞͇͈̹̙̙̜ ̱̞͉͈̥d̵̞̞̝̬͉͎e̺̤͉̮vi̧ḻ.̢̼̠̯̤͔͔͓**

-

This certainly was not what Deceit had expected.

Yes, he’d expected a summons. But he’d anticipated being faced with death—gleaming blades, torches, cruel smiles and hurt eyes. Not Logan, sitting pensively at the kitchen table, hands steepled over a stack of papers.

_His_ stack of papers.

They’d opened the chest, then.

There was silence for a long while, Deceit standing in their kitchen like an uncertain child at a friend’s house. Logan was very pointedly waiting for him to speak. Deceit noticed physical Lies hardened over his face and discovered a new respect for the logical Side. It was in his eyes. It must have burned like nothing any of them had felt before. A glance at his hands told Deceit that Logan had tried to get it out, his fingertips also stained black.

“I’ve read it, all the way through.”

Deceit’s head jerked up from Logan’s hands to his eyes, where he saw the black of the Lies, but also an uncovered patch of bloodshot eye.

Then the full meaning of the words hit him.

Logan knew. Logan knew everything.

Deceit wasn’t sure why he fell back against the counter. It was probably because of an iron-deficient diet.

Logan gestured to the chair across from him. Deceit fell into it. The paper stack was gently slid across the table. The sheet atop the stack was not the one that normally should be there—it was supposed to be on the bottom, the lines of it blank. It was neither of those things.

_I, Logan Logic Sanders, having read this document in its entirety, request the ‘unleashing’ of Virgil Anxiety Sanders._

Deceit figured he should feel something. Technically, he’d won—there hadn’t been a way for him to lose, he’d made sure of that. Now the Light Sides had detailed descriptions of what Virgil had done to him, to Remus, to the Others. Now they wanted Virgil back—to save him from death, likely. To formally announce to him that he was no longer welcome. To spend hours interrogating him about why he had done what he’d done. Deceit, at one point, had appreciated the idea of these things, had made the contract as findable as was possible without violating Virgil’s requests.

Virgil. The Side had only agreed to their arrangement because he’d thought he would come out of it redeemed. Deceit had never had any plans of letting that happen. Either Virgil would die, or the Light Sides would find out everything. No matter what Anxiety thought, this was no mutually beneficial arrangement.

“Deceit… .”

Logan’s hand on his was surprisingly comforting. Deceit looked up from his thoughts; Logan’s clear eye betrayed … sympathy?

“I … I am sorry,” Logan said shortly. Deceit laughed, shrill and incredulous to his own ears, and pulled his hand away.

“No you aren’t,” he said, hearing the truth and denying it.

“I only wish that we might not have been so—so nearsighted, to have not noticed—” Logan’s hand slapped over his own mouth.

Deceit stood angrily, knocking the chair back and distantly hearing it clatter across the kitchen. A tense silence followed, broken only by his heavy breathing. Logan didn’t move, watching him calmly from behind his hand.

Deceit grabbed at his own hair and tugged, knocking his bowler hat askew. They weren’t supposed to feel sorry for him! They were supposed to hate Virgil for what he’d done, not for who he’d done it to! They were supposed to be horrified by the descriptions of their sweet, innocent Virgil; they were supposed to read the five pages dedicated to every concussive act Anxiety had ever committed, and feel sick!

They weren’t supposed to care about the victims.

“I don’t want your sympathy,” Deceit ground out, “and neither does Remus. I _want_ to make Anxiety hurt.”

He kicked the chair suddenly, earning a startled jump from Logan, but otherwise nothing. The logical Side was as collected as ever.

Deceit leaned close, his teeth almost catching Logan’s nose when he spoke. “You can have him back,” he whispered, “if you want him. But if he—” and now he was shaking, tears far too close for comfort—“touches me, or Remus, _ever again_, I will see to it _personally_ that he is never free from the hell I have prepared for him.”

Then he sank out.

And he didn’t feel anything, he told himself. Except perhaps very tired.

Deceit snapped his fingers twice, knowing it would set Anxiety free and return him to the Light Sides. Then he stumbled into his own room and fell onto the bed, hoping his head would clear with some sleep.

A dreamless sleep overtook him almost immediately, and for once in his life, Deceit felt peaceful.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Sibylle Baier - The End https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqNptrRg5AI  
Tw: Mentions of eye horror, discussion of depression, discussion of unsympathetic acts

**L̨̫̙e̮t͈ t̖̦̳͇h̞͖̠͎̝y̘̘͚͙ͅ ͉̖̹͓̠f̺̦̬͇ai̡͍̬̣̰̝͕ͅr͇̞̠̲̰͔ͅ ̛͎̻w̻̤͜ͅi̜s͝d̯̗͎̥ͅo̠̞͉͔̼m̡͕̲͍,̙ ̡̠̺̩͎͖ͅn̺̰̠̹̖͓̟͡ơ͈͇t̖̼̲̱͈̭͟ ̻͕̳̱̱͕ͅț͖̬͍h̬̗̖͎̘͍y̩̼̗͖͘ p̮̠̙̤̗a͉̻s̱͚͈̪͇s̷̱̪͔̠͍̖̪i̛͈̤͈̺̪o͚n̳͙̱͉ ̰͈͓̝̹̫͞ş̭̣͈̟w͍̟a̱̯̲̘͔͟y̸̯̞͓̣̦**

** ̬͉̖̼I̧͔n̜͎̠̥ ̰̞̭͕t̼̬̬͎̣h̵̳̙̟̝i̜͇̫͍̪͍s̮͚̙̝̲̯ ͡u͎͉͉̕n͈̮̖̱c͍i̱͘v̬̮̪̼͙̯i̠̖͍̩̖͖̮l͉ ҉a̪̣n̹̱d͕̜̦̻ ̛̺t̛̥̯̪̫̝͓̣ẖ̪̠̻͓̞̠o̜u̢͚̦̗͖̞̭̗ ̝̖͔̟u̴̗̬̺̳n̶̳̰̬j̞̖̭͎u̩̞̮̝s̳̮͈̥̭̼̫̕t̠ ̧̯͖͕̣̦̞ͅex̪͇̤̜̯̪͝ͅt̨͚̟ͅe̢̪ͅn͍͓̱͈̻t̗̗̮ ̭̣**

**A̸̹̞̗̘̪̪̝g̢̥̜̻̰͕̘̠a͍i͚͚͉̯͞ṇ͉͢s҉͈̮̟̪t̬̪̝̳ ̜̝t͚̪̝̮̩h̦̲̻̺y̟̳͓̼͢ ̪̬͉̝͘p̰͍͝ͅe͓̗̲͡a̳̖̮͘c̵̳̠̲̻͇ͅe͙͈͙̤̥͓͙͢.̧̻̣ **

-

“Roman?”

The sound roused him from whatever sleep had claimed him, and Roman sat up slowly. He wasn't quite sure who had spoken, but the accompanying knock told him they were not within his room.

“Come in,” he called, words heavy with sleep. The door opened to reveal Logan, who actually looked a bit better since Roman had last seen him. He still had all that gunk on his face, but it looked clearer. He looked in control of himself.

“Virgil is back,” Logan said without preamble. “He is currently asleep in my room. I plan to treat his wounds shortly.”

“Oh,” was all Roman could say. He didn't know quite how to feel, but there was a strange pit forming in the bottom of his stomach. It was over.

It was finally, finally over.

“Would you like to read the rest of the contract?”

Roman shuddered. “_No_,” he said firmly. There was no way he'd ever want to. Just knowing those first few pages made him sick. Virgil had tortured, killed other Sides. “But I have to ask,” he said before he could stop himself, “did it ever say . . . why?”

Logan shifted uneasily. “Not in as many words. However, the dates are to be noted, and I have developed a reasonable conclusion.

“All of these incidents take place within the same twenty-seven months, beginning midway through Thomas's junior year of university.”

Roman frowned. “To be frank, I don't remember much of what happened during that time.” He didn't. He'd been engaged in a war. A new Dark Side had surfaced during the break between Thomas's sophomore and junior years—Depression. Depression had commanded his fell beasts to take over the Imagination, and the war had lasted months, until Thomas's senior year. Depression had been growing weaker, losing every battle, then one day he had disappeared altogether.

“Yes. Well, halfway through the year, Thomas acknowledged that Depression was a problem and sought professional help,” Logan continued. “The medication, while effective against Depression, had an adverse effect on Thomas's Anxiety.

“These . . . horrors, as described by the contract, were not committed by _our_ Virgil, as far as I can tell. Picture a corrupted Anxiety, growing ever insane and enraged for reasons he cannot deduce. Existence must have been torturous.”

“Maybe.” Roman wanted to be convinced. He wanted to believe that Virgil wouldn't, that Virgil _couldn't_ do such things. There was no denying it, though. Virgil himself had written his own actions, testified of his deeds. He remembered everything! How could it not have been their Virgil when Virgil knew he had done it? “But . . . he remembers.” And now Roman was crying again, not even able to explain what he meant, letting the tears flow freely because all this, all this was _too much_, and all this _deserved_ his tears.

Logan watched him, silent and sad. Everything felt out of place, wrong. Roman buried his face in his sheets and choked out a sob. They had Virgil back! Virgil, who'd held him in that horrible, dark room, who'd joked with him and tried to keep him safe. Where was the happy ending? Now was when the story was supposed to tie everything together, but they were all so—so broken! How was this going to be fixed?

After what must've been ten minutes, his crying slowed, and Logan (still there for some reason) sighed.

“I do not wish to make excuses for Virgil's actions, I only wish for you to understand. Not only was Virgil not in his right wits, he is currently truly repentant, if any of his actions over these past months exemplify his mindset.”

Roman nodded. He hadn't really thought about it, but Virgil really was sorry. He felt bad enough that he was willing to give up his life to torture, lasting as long as Deceit pleased. If that wasn't repentance, Roman didn't know what was.

It didn't make it right, though.

He sniffed and sat up, drying the last of his tears. “I'll keep it in mind,” he said, voice shaky.

Logan nodded. “I will share my deductions with Patton. He is. . . .” a pause. “. . . . Distraught.”

Suddenly, all Roman wanted to do was sleep. His bed felt so comfortable, and he still felt hazy from his nap. Logan seemed to notice and quietly let himself out.

Roman lay back, feeling a headache coming on. It would definitely be best to just sleep.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Cavetown - Devil Town v2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBcK-0MXG5M  
Tw: Mentioned eye horror, IV equipment

Anxiety woke alone.

He still hadn't gotten used to waking up. For a long time, life had been one endless stretch of pain. There were no days or nights. Sleep never happened. Now he slept when he needed a break from his senses, suddenly overcome with the onslaught of stimulus. Everything was so bright, so loud, so much.

Anxiety sat up, looking around. There was an IV in his arm, and he felt bandages in seemingly random places on his body. He didn't exactly know where he was, but apparently that was nothing new, as a whiteboard on the wall displayed some important information.

_Your name is Virgil. You are Thomas's anxiety._

_You are in Logic's room. His name is Logan._

Virgil. It felt right. He thought maybe he ought to remember his own name, but couldn't really bring himself to care.

“You appear to have woken again.”

Virgil looked up. The door was open, and another Side—Logan—was staring at him. Well, staring might be a bit of a stretch, as something black appeared to totally cover Logan's eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, realizing Logan seemed to be waiting for a response. “I—why am I in your room?”

“Your memory is strangely incomplete. I made the choice to keep you here, hoping the effects of my room would aid you.”

“Oh,” Virgil said. “Where are. . . .” What were the others' names? They slipped from his mind like soap in the shower.

“Virgil, can you tell me what you remember?” Logan asked, sitting on a chair near the door.

“I. . . .” He remembered his family, in a hazy, not-quite-there kind of way. He remembered . . . Deceit. Throughout the horrible pain, when the mist had invaded his body, he'd relived every single interaction he'd had with Deceit multiple times over. Near the end, everything had darkened and he'd mostly stopped thinking about everything, the only memories left the ones he'd been forced to hold on to.

“Where's . . . um. . . .” Anxiety frowned, then glanced at the board again. Virgil. That was his name. So what were the others' names? “P-Patton?” A feeling of victory rose up in him at Logan's confirmatory nod. Sure, he couldn't remember his own name, but he'd been able to hold on to his family. It was vague, but he could remember that he loved them.

Logan looked away. “He is . . . busy,” he said unconvincingly. “Roman is asleep, I believe. Are you all right?”

Virgil took stock of himself. He was sore, of course. Tired. But also satisfied, in a sense. Deceit had let him go, hadn't he? That meant he was free. Redeemed. He'd paid everything in full.

Unless they'd found the chest.

They hadn't, had they?

Then Virgil was scared, and he felt his breath getting tighter as he stood, pulling at the IV in his arm. “I have to know,” he managed. “Did . . . the chest?”

Logan's face went flat. He looked up, and Virgil saw the literal crack in the plaster—a tiny hole in the black stuff that formed a shell over his eyes, allowing him to just barely see through his left eye. “You've asked after the chest every time you've woken thus far,” he said quietly. The dreadful tone of his voice told Virgil the answer, the terrible truth, and he fell back onto the bed, all hope from just moments ago crushed.

They _knew_. Not everything, but certainly the worst of it. They knew who he'd been. What he'd been. He wanted to tear his own ears off, pour poison in the holes in his head, and die painfully and _away_ from everyone.

“Why didn't he just kill me?” Virgil heard himself whisper.

“Virgil—”

Virgil ducked his head into his arms, pulling his knees up to his chest. Hot, shameful tears spilled out of his eyes, and he choked back a sob. His world was falling apart, just crumbling into dust as his spirit broke. There was no chance he could ever be loved again. He knew he didn't deserve it, he knew he cringed every time they complimented him, but now they _knew_. Now there was no way he'd ever again get a hug from Patton, a warm smile from Roman, calm words of comfort from Logan. . . . Virgil sniffed, the world he'd dared to want slipping out of his grasp. They were going to kill him, oh, they were going to—

A warm arm wrapped around him, effectively short-circuiting those thoughts. Virgil looked up and involuntarily shuddered at the sight of Logan's eyes, mere inches away.

“Virgil, I am not going to ask you my questions at this moment, nor any moment in the very near future. Know that you are safe here.” Logan smiled, slightly strained. “I have made inferences based on past behaviors and I deem you safe, and in no way intending to harm us.”

“But you don't know that!” Virgil blurted out, shoving away and off the bed.

Logan frowned at him. “Do you intend to harm us?”

“Well, no, but—” Anxiety tore at his hair with tight fists. Why couldn't Logic understand? “I can't control it! I can't stop hurting people, I want to, but I can't. When I—when I get like—like _that_—” Anxiety shuddered— “Nobody can stop me. Nobody.”

Logic simply looked at him for a long time. “That is what matters,” he said eventually. “That you don't _want_ to hurt anyone. Remember that.” He stood to leave, then gestured to the bed. “Sleep, read, whatever you wish,” he said. “I trust you.” Then he left, narrowly missing concussing himself on the door frame.

“How. . . ?” Anxiety whispered, long after the Side had left. “How?”


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Imagine Dragons - Thirty Lives https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlqdMxbNSXo
> 
> Tw: References to past injuries/abuse
> 
> A/N: Yep. Last chapter. There will be an epilogue next week, and once that’s been posted, I’ll list out all the one shot ideas I’ve got! It feels so weird to finally be ending something I’ve been working on since September. Anyhow, love you guys and hope you enjoy–and don’t forget about that epilogue! This isn't over yet!

It was a nice day in the Imagination. Roman was back by his stream, trying to meditate, find peace in the quiet noises of the woods. The grass was soft, the air was clear, the stream was gurgling quietly in a calming way. The perfect conditions.

“Hey, Princey.”

Roman jerked and looked up. Virgil smiled sadly down at him, then gestured with a bandaged hand to the ground. “Mind if I sit?”

Roman shrugged, mouth slightly ajar, too surprised by the sudden intrusion to actually speak. Virgil eased himself into a cross legged position to match Roman, a grimace of pain pulling at the corners of his mouth.

They were silent, for a while. Roman tried to return his concentration to meditation, but it was difficult with Virgil right there. The last time Roman had properly had a conversation with him had been back in that dark room, which Roman decidedly did not want to talk about.

Unfortunately, he must have done something to upset the universe.

“We should probably talk about what happened.”

Roman sighed. He’d meticulously avoided interaction with any Side for the past week or so to give himself time to process, but he kept circling back to the beginning. Why couldn’t he move on, like Logan had? “What do you want to start with?” he asked carefully.

Virgil shrugged, hand on the back of his neck. “Dunno. L-Logan said you probably needed to talk, but you didn’t want anyone to know. Fair warning though, my memory’s pretty screwed up, so this conversation could go nowhere.”

There were some questions Roman wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure that what he wanted to know Virgil would be willing to discuss. Eventually, he went with the simplest of his questions.

“Do you remember … the twenty-four hours?”

Virgil shuddered, then nodded. “Yeah. Those … those were the worst hours of the whole thing.”

Roman felt a little warmth in his heart at that admission. He, too, thought it had been the worst. His hand traced lightly over the scars on his chest. Virgil saw, and looked away.

“Thank you for choosing me,” Roman said softly. The words required no explanation, but Roman felt like one was in order. “It … I wish it had never happened, if I’m honest. But Patton wouldn’t have been able to … you know. Nor Logan.”

“Yeah. I know.”

The conversation was almost companionable, for its dark subject. Roman recognized, suddenly, that the Side next to him was the only person he’d ever be able to truly talk to about what had happened in there. He was grateful for that. But he didn’t want to talk about it. In the future, sure, when their friendship was easier and trust stronger, when they could cry and hold each other without being uncomfortable or ashamed.

Then Roman stopped those thoughts, because what if they never got there? Had he really forgotten all of Virgil’s misdeeds so quickly.?

“Do you remember what you did?” asked Roman quickly, before he lost his nerve and never asked.

Virgil looked him in the eyes now, something deep and sad in that shaky gaze of his. “Yes.”

Roman didn’t break the eye contact, watching as Virgil’s eyes grew glassy, then refocused with the measured inhales and exhales of air. A breathing exercise, if Roman was anyone to judge.

“I remember it all,” Virgil whispered. “I never want to forget, because then I might forgive myself. And I can’t do that.”

Oh.

More than anything Logan had said or explained, this meant something. Virgil had unknowingly said exactly what he needed to say for Roman to see how plainly he was different. This bruised, sad Side before him had done some truly horrific things, but no longer belonged to those actions.

Then Roman thought about Deceit. He had changed too. Neither Side had healed, had held on to the pain until it had threatened to consume them. Deceit must have hurt so much. What he’d done was wrong, and what Virgil had done was wrong, and everything was so confusing. How was he supposed to sort things out? In the Imagination, his games were always black and white. He was the hero, the villain was the villain. If Roman was feeling particularly energetic, the hero was flawed and the villain had motivation, but this wasn’t even that. Nobody was righteous here. Nobody was evil, either. Everyone and everything just was; everyone and everything just happened.

It hurt Roman’s head to think about. “What is a world without good and without evil?” he murmured.

Virgil shifted into his line of vision, and Roman realized his gaze had fallen to the ground while thinking. He looked up into Virgil’s face again.

“Cre—Princey, I know it’s hard to think about. But people… .” Virgil sighed. “I’m trying to accept that people change. Maybe I’ve changed. I know I want to. Lo—Lo—Logic says that we have to judge people by looking at collective actions and states of mind or whatever.”

“Honestly, that didn’t help,” Roman said, smiling a little. Virgil chuckled, then lay back on the grass. Roman followed suit, shifting a little as the grass tickled his neck. Through the leafy canopy, he could see the blue sky marred by a single cloud.

“It’s a really nice day,” Virgil said, almost wistfully.

Roman let out a sigh that was close to being content. He had time to sort out all his feelings on this. At this moment, he needed to focus on the now. The crisp grass underneath him, the warm breeze rustling the leaves above him, the splashes of the stream, the twittering of birds, the slow breaths and comforting presence of Virgil beside him.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even fixed. Everything was so, so broken. But for now, they all had each other. And in time, things would work out.

In time, they would heal.


	43. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Regina Spektor - Call Them Brothers  
Tw: Remus being Remus  
A/N: Here we are, then. The epilogue. In the end notes, I'll put my current one shot ideas (I’m open to suggestions!). Enjoy.

**I̡̨͠t̸̷̛͜ ̸͝͞҉g͟͞r̡̕͜͟i̵͢҉e̢͘͝v͜͢͝e̵̸̕͟͡s̢ ̴̷̨͠͡m̴̸̧͡e ̸̴̷̢**

**M҉̸͠u̷c̨̕͜͢h̨̡̛͞ ͢͠m̢̛͢͝͠ơ̢ŗe͟͝ ̵͢͠f̧͘͞o̵̶̡̡r̴͘ ̨w̕͟͝h̸̛̕͟͟a̢͞t̷ ̡̨I̵͘ ̵̕͟c͜͏͜͟a͏̧n̸̨n҉̷̶̛̕o͢͢͏t̵͝҉҉̷ ̸̶̡͜͠d͜҉o͘͡͏̢ ̶̸҉͜͢f̸̛͠o͢͠͞r̵͏ ͏̸y̧̨̛ou̴͠ ҉͠**

**T̵̢͞h͡͠a̧̡n̴̷ ̛̛w҉̶h̶̕ą̵̨̨͞t̵͞͞ ̧b̴͜͞͝͞e̵͢͢͞͞f̶̢̨̕͟ą͘͜l҉͜͟l̷̵͡s̸̴͝͝͡ ̸̧m̛͟͠͠y̸̡͘͞s̛̕e̢͏͘͘l҉̸̛͞f̧̧͞.̡̨͘͢͏**

**Ḩ̶̸̠̦̫̘͎̠̭̤̼̺͎̲̑͛͆́ͯ͐̎͗͑͐͜ǫ̴̳̺̥̤̣̯̦̖̙ͤ̓ͣͪ̋͛̐̈́̑̚̕͝͞ẅͨ͆͊ͪ́ͪ̾ͭ͡͏̨̱̻̹̼̱̹̤̬̙̳̲͈͎̪̼͜͞ͅ ̸̪͎͇͓͕̬̼̝͓̍̓̎ͤ͒̾̃̿̽̈̎ͧ͟ȟͮ́ͦͪͥͥ͋ͨ̊̅̃ͧ̔ͬ͏͖̗̫͍̩̻̖̣͔̘̕͝͡ͅa͋ͨ̓ͭ̽̉ͩ̔ͤͩ̔ͫ҉̨̙̝̦͚̬̻̖̖͉͈̺̺v̴̵̝̬̗̩͔ͤͮͤͭͤ̊̾ͯͦ̒͆͜ͅe̵̸͚͙̤͍̙͙̳̹̭̹͇̩͍͔̟̠̿ͮͤ̃̉̈́̈ͦ͌̾̊ͯ̆̈ͤ͗̃ͫͩ̕͜ͅ ̢̱̩͈͉͙̖͗ͨ̅̊̓̊̎̒̓y̷̴̙̗̣̘̮̯̥͈ͯ̓ͥ̑̎̌̀̍ͦ͘ö̧̨̢́ͤ̿̑̔ͥ̎͂͊ͪ͏̳̞͕̯͔͇̲ͅu̥͓̣̜̫̘̅͊̉͌̅̑ͩͩͯ̓̆ͣ͂̅͊ͫ̚͢͞͠ ̸̴̵̶̣̲̭̤̲̫̭̭̫̗̲̥͚̯̋̇ͤͪͪ̃̇m̷̨̮̥̗̣̤͖͙ͫ͗̄ͭͨ̋ͬ̊̐̾̅̚͟ạ̶̷̬̗̤̦͎̟̯͎̘̯̮͓͈͚̘̺ͮ̃̈̍̎̈́͌̅̓͊͊͊̃̚͟ͅd̡͍̳̟̘̘̠̜̺̳͖͈̤ͪ̊ͧ̐̊ͬ̏̿͆ͫ̊ͬͨͦ̅̍̀̽͂͜ͅe̸̶͕̯̟͖͙͉̬̩̻̭̹̫̙̺̬̘̥̔̅ͭͦ͆ͣ̅ͣͅͅ**

** ̴̵̸͛̒͐͒͌͠͏̼̩̱͓̙̘͓̱͚̟͖̭̬͍̜ͅd̵̛̛̹̼̖̥̳͉̜̖͔̥͔͐ͣ̅̓͘i̫̬͙̠̯͚͔̣͈̬͊̿͛̓̔͘͟͡v̡̨͕͚̯̘̤͖̙̣̱̦̬̲̋ͨ͋̉̑͊͘i̓̓̈́͏̡̧̪̲̰͖̠͞͝s̡̭̫̰̙̙̰͍̠̠̝̮͕̒̈ͮ̊̓ͪ͘͞í̸̡̦͉͉͎̯͖̳̺̯͙͍̳̩̦̬̓ͪͤͬ͛̕͞ȯ̓̑̐͊ͮͥ̄͛͋͋͋ͥ̿̒̓̏͏̡̡̰̝̲̻̬̳̫̖̞̘̠̫n̸̤̣̭̞̦̝̺͈͎̮̻̪͗͗͊̔ͣͭ̀̍͂ͣ̉ͦ̕ ̗͎͕̦̩͉͓ͣ̇̽̆ͧͦ̆̑̅ͤ̒͂͂̚͝o̡͚̙̖͕͙̗̯̫̯̯̳̿̇͂͆̿̎͗̑ͯ͆ͭͧ̑ͯ̾ͩ̾͟͡f̡̧̥͚͍̳̖̲̹̹̣͙͕͉̪̫̘̫̰̲͆̿͐̅ͨ͒ͧ̾̔͘͝ ̵̟̱̬͍͇͙̦̪̜̱͎̼̈́̈́͋ͯ̂́̉͆̒̈ͧ̑ͤ͂͌͟͢͡ͅy̸̴̷̨̠̱̹͎̠̼̼͙͍̹̬ͬ̎̇̍͛̄͌ͥò̴͉̭͕̠̿ͭͣ́̍̄ͬ͌̊̅̿̚͘͟͡ư̵̞̫̜̪̤ͫ̏̔ͬ̈́͑͛̋͛͐̕͜r̂̆̆̃ͮͣ͑̓̐̉̈́̂̊̌̐͏̡̣̩̖̥̘͇̩͔ͅs̋͊̑͒̈́ͤͨ̌̐̿҉͏̟̫͍̯͔̳̘̦̥͚̰͖̬̙̮̥̭̞̰̕͜e̶̢̨̡̼̲̟̭̜͙͈̬̝͍͉͍͕͖̜ͪ͐͛̀ͪ̉̽ͩ̍̐ͯ̌̂ͯ̔̀̉̚͠ͅľ̛̰͕̘̻͉̞̜͔̖̾ͧ̑͑ͥ̑ͨ̽̈͜ͅͅf̷̸̢͙̮̗͉̳̮̈́ͣ͒ͪ͌̑ͪ̀ͫ̄͋͑̿̊̂͊̓ͭ͜?̛̯̗̟̬͖̥̫͙̩͓̰͈̟̪͊̃ͯ́̽̂ͭ̀͟ **

-

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It had been a good night, Remus decided. He'd sent Thomas a particularly creative dream, then spent the rest of it running around the Imagination, programming all of Roman's NPCs to start singing 'Chicken On A Raft' when interacted with. Actually, it had probably been a bit longer than a single night. Remus was bad a keeping track of time (spending years locked in a room did that to a Side). It had probably been a week or three, actually. That meant it was about time to make sure Dee was doing all the self-care stuff!

Remus wriggled through the kitchen window, somersaulting over the sink and landing on the balls of his feet. He took a sweeping bow, mimicking whoops and applause. Then he clambered over the table, calling out the the only other occupant of the house.

“Dee, I'm home! And I brought presents!”

He hadn't brought presents. Sometimes he did, though, and he shouted it every time to keep Dee guessing. And when he did bring something, it was a pleasant surprise. Dee always smiled, no matter what Remus gave him. Come to think of it, he probably should have brought something. He hadn't seen Dee smile in a long time.

On a whim, Remus summoned some rubber snakes tied up in a bouquet. That would make Dee happy. That would make him smile.

He bounded up the stairs to Deceit's room, noticing the light dust around the house but not really paying in any mind. Dee had been too busy to clean.

“Dee!” Remus knocked four times on the door, but didn't wait for someone to open it. Or, he tried not to wait. The door was locked. “Silly snake,” Remus giggled, waving his hand to unlock the door. Dee hadn't been able to lock him out even when they were young!

Remus certainly didn't expect the sight that met him.

The room was trashed. Completely torn apart. The door wouldn't open all the way, blocked by an overturned chair and some ripped articles of clothing.

Remus, for the first time in his admittedly spotty memory, couldn't speak. The bouquet dropped from his numb fingers as he surveyed the damage.

Pieces of paper—balled-up, torn, flat—were littered everywhere, as if a storm had scattered a whole ream. Clothes were shredded or wrinkled and thrown about the room. Glass crunched under Remus's booted heel as he carefully stepped further in. Blankets and sheets had been pulled from the bed, the mattress essentially just a conglomeration of springs and foam. _What happened here?_

Remus hissed as another step sent something rolling—his left foot had nudged a bowler hat out of place. And now that he looked down, away from the bed, he saw that the disaster had a center.

All the blankets had been molded into a nest of sorts, covering two small forms. Remus picked his way through the destruction unusually solemnly, crouching and pulling the blanket back.

Two boys—maybe three years old—laid there, clutching each other in their sleep. One was freckled with scales all over his face and down his chest, the other clear-skinned. Both seemed so peaceful. So peaceful. Then, pulling the blanket back a little more, Remus saw that they each had a too-big yellow glove on one of their hands.

“It's okay to cry,” Remus whispered, because he _was_ crying. The tears were hot, and slow, and sad, like him. But it was okay to cry—that's what Dee would have told him. After all, he'd just lost his only friend.

Across the room, the bowler hat had hit the wall, its rolling path halted upon the shards of what had once been a mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My one shot ideas:  
1\. Remus raising the deceitful twins  
2\. A flashback involving Depression's death  
3\. A flashback detailing Remus and Anxiety's relationship Before  
4\. Virgil trying to get used to life again  
5\. Patton's reconciliation with Virgil.  
Let me know if any of these are things you want to see/which you'd want to see first!


End file.
